Looking for Nothing
by finnishvixen
Summary: Set after "Cycle of Violence". Unbeknownst to herself, Sam starts falling for Bailey bit by bit. Jack plots away at his future with Sam. First part in a major, multi-chapter trilogy, wherein I imagine the love story of Sam and Bailey!
1. Walking in the Clouds for a Day

(I own nothing. This fic begins the night of Sam's gala in "Cycle of Violence". This chapter refers to events of my drabble Placeholder, which is a part of _Never Told You, Never Told Anyone_. You may want to look it up, although everything should be self-explanatory.

This upcoming trilogy is by far my most ambitious fanfic endeavour ever. My intention is to write shorter chapters for this story, which will hopefully make for quicker updates than in my other stories. On with the show... Buckle in, cos it's gonna be a loong ride. Thanks to demonchilde, my beta reader!)

**WALKING IN THE CLOUDS FOR A DAY**

As Sam was tucking a sleepy Chloe in for the night, she thought about the night they'd had. Against all odds, she'd managed to have fun. She hadn't rambled during her thank you speech, and her friends and date had distracted her enough so she hadn't felt too uncomfortable with all the attention. She smiled when she remembered playful argument she'd had with Bailey over the trophy; she'd been insisting that he should take it with him so it could be displayed at the VCTF as soon as may be, whilst he had been adamant that she should enjoy at her house for a spell. In the end, she'd relented. She was planning to keep it for the weekend, and she'd take it to work on Monday and make sure that everyone so inclined would get a chance to take pride in it. After all, the trophy had been a group effort.

She left her daughter to her slumber, switched the light off in Chloe's room and headed to the living room. Angel was in the process of finding a good spot for the trophy Sam had received for her service in the Bureau. She decided on the dining table. She noticed Sam emerging from the kitchen. "Chloe asleep?"

Sam nodded and stretched her frame, starting to feel the lure of her bed.

Satisfied, Angel left the trophy alone. "You game for one more celebratory drink?"

"Sure, hit me," Sam muttered and plopped down on the sofa. Whilst Angel busied herself with the drinks, Sam let her eyes drift shut and let her mind wander, most of her thoughts focusing on the evening.

"Here you go," Angel offered her a champagne flute. They clinked their glasses in silence, having toasted Sam many times at the gala.

"So, did you have fun?" Angel enquired with a gleam in her eyes.

"Yeah, I did," Sam replied with a happy smile dancing on her features.

"Hey, who was Bailey's date? I didn't recognise her at all," Angel asked, eager for some gossip.

"Oh, her name is Ellen Behar. They were involved last year," Sam murmured as she swirled the champagne in the flute.

"And now they're back together again?"

"Maybe. It would seem so," Sam pointed out, sounding a bit dubious.

"Huh. Why did they break it off before?"

Sam took a sip of her champagne, mulling over her answer. "I think it had something to do with Frances, and Bailey's shooting. Plus, the situation with her ex husband was messy. They were only separated at the time."

"So... she broke it off when the going got tough? Okay," Angel remarked with a question in her tone. Lord knows she hadn't always seen eye to eye with Bailey, but over time he'd started to grow on her.

Sam shrugged her shoulders. Although she had met the woman one time before this evening, she didn't have the most glowing opinion of her. But, as long as Ellen made Bailey happy, it was none of her business. She changed the subject. "Did you have fun tonight?"

A smile blossomed on Angel's face. "Sure. My best friend was honoured, I was surrounded by hot FBI guys and the drinks were free. Who wouldn't have fun?" She left out her inkling that she might want to pursue the feelings she'd felt when she was dancing with John. She was trying to take it a day at a time, not make any long-term plans for the foreseeable future. No use getting your hopes up for nothing.

Angel spared a warm look at her friend. "I'm so proud of you, you know that?" They shared a hug, after which Angel announced that she was going to bed. Sam stayed on the sofa for a while before deciding herself to call it a night. She gulped down a huge glass of water in the kitchen, petted Denzel for a moment and withdrew to her room. As she drifted to sleep, the last conscious thing on her mind was Bailey's praise.

* * *

><p>Frances stirred awake on the sofa when she heard keys hit the kitchen counter with a clang. Her dad had come in through the door to the garage. She sat up and rubbed her face. "Hey, how was it?"<p>

Bailey, preoccupied by the events of the evening, hadn't noticed his daughter dozing on the sofa. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

Frances shook her head. "I wasn't really asleep. How did it go?"

Bailey smiled. "It was a good evening, all in all."

"And... how was Ellen?" Frances asked hesitantly. She didn't think too kindly of the woman, who seemed to reciprocate the sentiment herself. Frances wondered if Ellen's overture at this point in time had anything to do with the fact that she would leave before long for college, leaving the coast clear once again for a hassle-free affair. Still, she was determined to make an effort for her dad.

Her question surprised him. He was aware that there wasn't exactly any love lost between the pair. "I don't think I'll be seeing her again."

She felt a rush of relief and surprise. "Oh. Why, if I may ask?"

He angled for a breezy smile, even though the rejection he'd suffered at the hands of the woman stung a bit. "I guess you kids would say that I was blown off."

That fact cemented Frances' bad opinion of the woman. "Sheesh. I dare say something, or rather, someone better will come along." Her dad didn't seem as confident as she was. She decided to distract him from his current misery. "Did you take any pictures? I'd love to see some."

He thought about the enquiry. "Sam's friend Angel took photos, and there was a photographer taking shots for the internal bulletin. I'll see if any float my way."

"You do that. I'm off to bed. Night, daddy." She gave her dad a light kiss on the cheek. Bailey watched her daughter head to her room and pondered her words. Who knew, maybe someone better would come along. For the time being, he would concentrate on enjoying his daughter's company before she left for college. As he readied himself for sleep, he wondered how long it would be before Sam brought the trophy to work. Now that she'd gotten over the mortification of being singled out, she might learn to appreciate the item and keep it to herself for a time.

Still, he only gave it a week.

To his dismay, he turned out to be wrong by as many days as four.


	2. It's You that I Adore

**IT'S YOU THAT I ADORE **

Soon, he would have to dispense with Sharon, who'd been weak and incompetent enough to let herself get caught. How could he have been so mistaken in his choice? If he were brutally honest, he would concede that her failure was his failure; he had failed to pick the most deserving facsimile, had fallen short in his training of her. Now, he was praying the price.

The idea had come to him at a moment of weakness and loathing. He hadn't anticipated Sam's challenge that day, and mortified by his failure, he'd resolved to making her jealous of his attentions.

In a way, he welcomed his shortcomings with Sharon. He now had a firmer handle on how to proceed with Sam, once the game was over and he had her. He wouldn't repeat the same mistakes, wouldn't try to make his Sam run before walking.

He'd learned even more patience than he had ever imagined himself capable of. For now, he would need to draw on that patience, for there were still many moves before the end.

He wondered how his beloved's evening had progressed. Moronic hoi polloi, misguidedly thinking that she would appreciate their recognition of her talents. They didn't know that only he appreciated her the way she deserved. He cherished a vision of a future when she would welcome his adulation openly.

He'd hacked into the security feed of the lobby at the hotel. He needed to keep an eye on the situation with her date. He would have to make some arrangements to do so.

Allowing the men of the task force to have access to her, to influence her, was bad enough. He wouldn't tolerate a new man in her life. Not when the game was winding down to its end.

Sam belonged to him, and him alone.


	3. Did We Begin without Knowing It?

(My fabulous beta reader demonchilde helped me with this chapter; however, I've changed a few things since. Any errors or mistakes are my own.)**  
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**DID WE BEGIN WITHOUT KNOWING IT?**

Bailey's eyes caught a curious glimmer in his office as he walked past the windows. He took a second look at the object, and the sight had him sighing. His victory from this morning had been short-lived: he'd half-expected Sam to bring the trophy to work, and had been pleased when she'd greeted him in the morning without a trophy in sight. Now it was obvious that she'd smuggled it in either then or later on, for now there it was, sitting on the back wall desk.

His stubborn friend emerged from her office with a case file in hand, keen on discussing a detail of some sort with him. "Hey Bailey, about that last crime scene in Tuscaloosa..." She halted her remarks when he fixed her a half stern, half bemused look. "What?" He shifted his eyes to the trophy in a pointed manner.

"Oh, that. Well, I did say that I shared with all of the people I work with. Now it's your turn to bask in its glory," she reasoned with ease before continuing: "If it makes you happy, I'll come by and visit it every night before I leave work." She rolled her eyes in a jesting manner and he relented. She'd made up her mind, and he suspected he couldn't talk her out of it. "Fine. What about the case?"

She coaxed him into following her by grabbing his elbow. "I have an idea about it that I need to discuss with you and George."

They headed to the command center and found the team's computer whiz hard at work at the main table.

"George, I have a question for you," Sam addressed the expert.

George put his current task aside and focused on his co-worker. "Shoot."

"It's about the Tuscaloosa case. Could you check if the crime scene photos include any pictures of chess boards?"

"Chess boards?" Bailey repeated as George started to pull up the photos.

"Yeah, I know it sounds a bit odd, but I was going through the crime scene of the fifth victim, and the miniature chess board positioned on the smaller living room table caught my attention. It's too deliberate."

Bailey pondered Sam's thoughts. "You think the killer brought it with him?"

"Maybe, that's why I want to check the other crime scenes. Here, take a look at the photo."

He inspected the picture. Sam seemed to be right; something was off with the board. Meanwhile, George had finished his task.

"I pulled all the photos, there are 183 altogether." They looked through the shots in chronological order. Out of five crime scenes, only two seemed to have included a chess board. Bailey instructed George to delve in further and check the crime scene inventories. Sam's hunch could lead to something.

* * *

><p>Sam knocked on the open door. "Hey, I'm starting to head home," she told Bailey as she entered his office. "Just dropped in to appreciate my trophy," she explained cheekily.<p>

"By all means," he countered her joke. He watched on as she made a show of walking up to the trophy and gazing at it reverently for a second. She then stole a glance at him. "Happy?" she asked.

"Very," he shot back. They shared a bemused smile as she sat down on the chair opposing his desk.

"Did George have time to check the Tuscaloosa crime scene inventories?"

"He's waiting for confirmation on a few things from the local police departments. They should come through tomorrow."

She nodded and they sat in silence for a few moments. "Bailey, I may have to leave earlier one day this week. I'm gonna try to arrange a session with Melinda, and I don't know her schedules."

Sam's friend Melinda Gillespie had helped the profiler redefine her assessment of Jack months ago. He'd met the woman then in passing. He also knew that Melinda had counselled Sam after Coop's death. That prompted him to enquire: "That's fine. Is something... Is something troubling you?"

She alleviated his worries. "No, nothing specific, it's just that... That interrogation of Lesher brought up a few things, and I want to go over them with her."

She'd shared with him how the interrogation had gone, and he'd suspected that it might take a toll on her. However, he knew better than to suggest that someone else interrogate Lesher. Sam would tell him if she weren't up to it. He was counting on it.

"Frannie asked me if anyone had taken photos on Friday night. When do you think you might develop the ones Angel took?"

"Oh, I think this week. Maybe Angel and I ought to renovate one of the rooms at home into a darkroom. Would save me a lot of trouble," she added with a chuckle.

He cottoned onto her idea immediately. "You thinking about the big closet next to Angel's room?"

She smiled at how well he knew her train of thought. "Yeah, it's full of clutter that I should just really throw away."

"Sounds good."

Sam looked at her wrist watch. It was time that she started heading home. With that in mind, she stood up. "Give my love to Frances. Good night, Bail."

"I will. Good night."

* * *

><p>Sam hung up on Melinda, having made an appointment with her long-time friend for Thursday. She would have to take a few hours off in the middle of the day for the appointment's sake. She felt better, knowing that she would have a chance to unburden her mind with someone who was trained to take it on. She knew she could talk to Bailey, that he would listen to her concerns without hesitation, but she didn't want to add to his burden.<p>

Thinking of him, she remembered that Frances had expressed an interest in the photos from the gala. She needed to talk to her friend about converting the closet into a darkroom.

Angel and Chloe were training Denzel in the play area, reinforcing the "off" command. The dog placed occasionally his head or his paw on them while they were sitting down at a table or on the sofa. The artist and the girl were sitting on low chairs surrounding Chloe's play table, which was sure to entice the canine even more.

As Sam entered the area, Denzel, eager for some attention, laid his paw on Chloe's leg. The girl promptly said "off", stood up and walked away. Chloe waited ten seconds before returning to the table again.

"How's the training going?"

"He's getting better and better. That's the first time he did it tonight," Angel explained with pride.

"Great! Hey, Frances asked about those pictures you snapped on Friday, and that got me thinking. Do you have any objections if we convert the closet next to your room into a darkroom?" Sam sat down to join Chloe and Angel.

"No, it's a good idea. We wouldn't have to rely on any shops or on those FBI rooms. You'll have to sort out the stuff, since most of it is yours anyway," Angel pointed out, keeping a watchful eye on her dog.

"It's just mainly old case files, some clothes, that old tv set that stopped working ages ago. I'll try to get around to it this weekend."

"Fine by me."

The women relaxed as Denzel settled down on the floor. They gave him unanimous praise.

"Could you teach me how to develop photos, Mom?" Chloe's eyes shone with excitement.

"I'll show you how it's done, but I won't teach you just yet. It's a little risky with all the chemicals and such. Okay?" Sam suggested and Chloe nodded soberly.

"I think it's time for a little snack before bedtime. Let's go see what we can cook up tonight."

* * *

><p>Early next morning, Sam and Bailey joined John and George around the upper table of the command center to confer on the Tuscaloosa case.<p>

"Good news and bad news. I have confirmed that in two other cases, there was a chess board present at the crime scene," George divulged.

"Which ones?" Bailey asked for clarification on Sam's behalf.

"The first and third."

"So, that makes only the fourth as missing a chess board," John reasoned. "That'd be Mia Lowry's crime scene."

"But, the sole surviving family member, the mother, is so bereaved by the loss that she's refused to answer any further questions concerning the murder," George added.

"Sam, maybe you should go ask her in person. Perhaps the mother will respond better to you," Bailey suggested.

"I'll give her a call and see it where it gets me."

"I'd like to know the significance of the chess boards. Can you give any guesses, Sam?" John looked puzzled.

"I think that once we figure that out, we'll be a whole lot wiser than now. Right now, I don't have an answer."

"The boards might reveal the link between the victims. Let's get on this," Bailey rallied his agents, effectively disbanding their confab. John bounced up and retreated to his desk, while George took his laptop and walked to his work station. Bailey and Sam walked out together.

"Did you call Melinda?" Bailey asked in a quiet voice.

"Yes, I did. We arranged an appointment for Thursday at one pm. I hope that's okay?"

"Of course it is."

* * *

><p>Sam took a deep breath and gazed out of the window. Her friend was still on the phone with the dean. The office was spacious, furnished with endless book shelves, but the desk at which Melinda was sitting was tiny. The professor didn't want to come off as imposing in any circumstance. Sam thought about the last time she'd been in the room. Three months ago. Six months since Coop's death.<p>

Melinda startled Sam out of her musings. "Sorry about that." Melinda stood up and gave her former student a hug. "It's good to see you."

"You, too," Sam smiled warmly.

"How have you been?"

"I've been well. Better," she reassured the older woman who was scrutinizing her.

Melinda gestured at the two comfortable chairs. "Come on, let's sit down. Any specific reason why you wanted to see me?"

Sam sat down and took a beat. "Ah well... We captured Jill, the woman who helped Jack kill Coop."

Melinda's eyes widened from surprise. "And who tried to kill you?"

Sam nodded. "It was six weeks ago."

"Were you there when they arrested her?"

"Yes, the task force got her. She was about to kill two of my co-workers, but I crept up behind her and stopped her at gunpoint."

"How did it feel? Capturing one of your tormentors?"

Sam shrugged her shoulders. "Uh... I was soft of numb. I was relieved she didn'tget the chance to kill John or Marcus. I was thinking of Coop, but I didn't see myself pulling the trigger the way I did when we captured Carruthers." Sam's voice trailed off as she reminisced that misfire in Costa Rica.

"I see. Were you surprised by it?" Melinda eyed Sam with an evaluating gleam.

"I don't know. Maybe it was different because she's a victim of Jack's, albeit a willing one. Plus, she can lead us to him," she reasoned.

"Do you think she will?"

"I hope so. She isn't the perfect disciple he imagined she'd be. Last week, I gained access to her and interrogated her."

"How did you feel as you confronted her?"

"I didn't feel quite as powerful as I thought I would. Not like I sometimes feel with other murderers. Because she has the power to throw me. Reveal something horrifying about Coop's death," she sighed and picked at a loose thread at the seam of her cuff.

"You don't think you could cope with it?"

"I don't know. I mean, I've come to terms with it, but..." Sam trailed off.

"How would you feel about letting someone else interrogate her?"

Sam considered her friend's suggestion. "Like Bailey? Maybe. I think I could live with that."

"Listen to what your gut is telling you. Just allow yourself to feel whatever emotions the interrogations evoke. If it gets too tough, tell someone. But now, let's see what you can do in that moment when she throws you."

* * *

><p>"Hey." Sam walked into Bailey office at the end of the day.<p>

"Hi, are you going home?"

She ambled up to her trophy, giving it its due. Then she glanced at him. "In a moment." She settled onto the sofa, leaning her head back. Time to decompress a little before going home.

He looked on as she gazed into the distance for a while. He hadn't had the chance to talk to her alone before, and so he'd had to speculate about her appointment and how it had gone. Now, she was giving him an opportunity. "How was your session with Melinda?"

She sat up straighter, glanced at her hands. "It was good. I'm glad I went."

"Did you sort out your... doubts about Lesher?"

"In a way." She was silent for a few moments. "I needed to figure out a way of claiming my distance in case... In case she tells me something awful."

His heart filled with sympathy as he realised what she feared. "You're afraid you'd end up back in that van."

He'd voiced her biggest fear. What she hadn't confessed herself. She nodded at his apt description, trying to calm down her mind. He waited silently and watched her compose herself.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that, huh?" He gave a tiny smile at her words.

"You'll let me know?" He left out the end of the sentence. Nevertheless, she understood his meaning, and felt a rush of affection toward him.

"Of course," she reassured him. Her eyes happened on a picture frame on his desk. It was pointed away from her, but she knew it contained a photo of Bailey and Frances."Have you told Frances that I should have the photos by next week?"

"Have you already converted the closet?"

"No, I'm developing them at a studio a friend of mine owns. I'll clear out the closet this weekend."

"I wish you luck," he remarked with absurd solemnity, as if they were discussing a matter of great import.

"Thanks, I'll need it," she quirked one corner of her mouth.

"Go home, Malone. Enjoy your daughter's company for a change."

He feigned to be affronted. "I intend to, Kid."

His nick name for her brought a smile to her face. She gave him a tiny wave from the door. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bye, Sam."


	4. Everything's in Its Place

(Thanks for demonchilde again.)

**EVERYTHING'S IN ITS PLACE**

Sam stretched her hands in front of her. In the course of cleaning out the closet, she'd worked up a sweat and had paid penance for it on Sunday in the form of sore muscles. Fortunately, the muscles were beginning to loosen up. She estimated that she'd have the darkroom all good to go by next weekend, when she would outfit the former closet with the equipment she'd retrieve from Angel's farm.

She wondered when Frances would come by to look at the photos she'd developed the day before. The photos had turned out well; Angel had proven herself to be quite the photographer. Most of the shots were from the early evening before the festivities had begun in earnest, but there were more than a dozen photos commemorating the later on-goings, such as all the task force members together in a picture. Sam was going to frame that one.

She reached for a file from the Satin Slipper filing box, an old case that would be going to trial next week. The district attorney had contacted the task force and asked them to be ready to help out if it were warranted – the jury might need convincing or the district attorney could need help with interrogating any surprise witness or the accused.

Sam had just opened the file on the first victim when there was a knock on her door. Frances opened the door gingerly. "Hey Sam, is this a bad time?"

She snapped the file shut and gestured for the young woman to come in. "Hi Frances, not at all. How are you?" She stood up and walked around her desk.

Frances sat down on the sofa and offered her a bright smile. "I'm good. I've been keeping my head down and studying hard, volunteering at the community center. How about you?"

"I'm well, thanks."

"So, do you have any photos for me?" Frances sounded eager to see them.

"Sure do." She grabbed the small pile of photos on her desk and handed it to Frances. "Here you go."

Frances started poring over them. "Dad said you all had a good time."

"We did." She'd reminisced the event on and off ever since. It had been a good day.

"And hey, congratulations on the award!" Frances' admiration shone through her tone.

"Thank you. The award is every bit your dad's and everyone else's as it is mine," she made light of to whom the honour really was due.

"Is that your daughter?" Frances showed her a picture where she was holding Chloe in her arms.

"Yes, her name is Chloe."

"I can't believe I haven't met her. I'd like to, sometime," Frances suggested shyly. She liked Sam quite a lot, and wanted to pick her brain about psychology, as she was thinking about studying it in college. She also wanted to meet the little girl her dad talked of now and again.

"You and your dad should come by for dinner one day," Sam resolved the issue.

"It's a date. Oh look, that's a nice photo of my dad and you." Frances was describing a photo where she and Bailey were sitting at the table. They were facing each other, mirroring their postures, apparently lost in some cordial conversation, as they were both smiling.

"Yeah. Did you see the award in your dad's office?"

Frances didn't get around to replying to Sam before they were interrupted. Marcus breezed in through the open door to ask the profiler a question.

He stopped in his tracks when he saw the young woman. "Sorry, am I interrupting?"

Sam was quick to dismiss his concern. "We're just looking at some photos from the Women in Law Enforcement dinner. Have you met Frances, Bailey's daughter?"

"No, I haven't. I'm Marcus." He was unsure as to how greet the boss' daughter: pat on the head, a hand shake or a bow? His dilemma was solved by Frances extending her hand to him.

"Hi, nice to meet you. I can leave, if it's urgent," she offered, mindful of the way she might imposing on important investigations.

Marcus waved off her worries. "It can wait. I'll catch you at a better time, Sam," he said as he left.

Frances waited a beat, then said in a low voice: "He's an agent? He sure doesn't look like one, what with the leather jacket and all."

"Ah, he's been dividing his time between the task force and the gang unit within the FBI. I don't know what's going on with the leather jacket, though. I think he put the screws on your dad to get away with it," she remarked, amusement bubbling in her tone.

"I bet you're right," Frances conceded and chuckled out loud.

* * *

><p>Sam was once again sitting in Bailey's office, finishing up her perusal of the Satin Slipper murder files. She was also trying to hide from John, whom she'd witnessed making the rounds for touch football players. The league was in full swing again, with a game coming up next week. She'd had fun in her first game, but she'd forgotten most of the rules of the game by now and was therefore trying to lay low.<p>

Bailey, aware of her first reason but oblivious to her second, whooped at John who was passing his office.

"Oh, Sam, good thing you're here," John sauntered up to her as soon as he spotted her. "Touch football game, how about it?" Bailey abandoned his files to give the conversation about to unfold its proper due.

"Can't make it. Chloe's school has a thing," Sam piped up in her desperation, avoiding glancing at Bailey at all costs.

"That's what you said last time," John pointed out.

"Doesn't make it any less true, does it? Besides, we have Marcus now. Doesn't he play?"

"He does, but it's good to have back-up players in case someone gets sick."

"I'll think about it," she relented but already began thinking of an excuse to back out of the game.

John was oblivious to her instant regret. "Great!"

As Bailey and John discussed some case, Sam rued her bad fortune whilst pretending to be immersed in the files. She wondered if Bailey would guess the true reason behind her reluctance. He'd taught her to play, after all. She wondered where she'd stashed the tapes she'd made of the rules. She might need them again, if push came to shove. She guessed she could always ask Angel for some pointers, too.

In her reverie she missed John leaving the office. When she noticed the silence of the room, she glanced quickly at Bailey. Sure enough, he was looking at her with a bemused expression. "I thought you had fun at the game."

"I did have fun," she was quick to respond, lest he think that his teaching her had been a wasted effort.

"So why are you so reluctant?"

She gave him a frustrated look. "Because I don't really excel at this stuff, you know, and I'd have to learn the rules all over again," she rattled off.

"It'd take you two hours, tops, to refresh your memory," he remarked with a one-shoulder shrug.

"I guess so, but I don't know where the tapes I made are," she admitted to her bad organisational skills.

He turned his face to hide his incipient smile at the memory of her making those tapes. She really did take some things too conscientiously.

"I can go over them with you," he offered.

At his words she remembered what she'd planned with Frances.

"When Frances was here, she and I made a date for dinner soon. How's Saturday for you? She could meet Chloe and we could go over the basic stuff?"

"Deal."

* * *

><p>Angel was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at her cell phone. She was trying to summon her nerve to give John a call and ask if he'd like to grab a cup of coffee sometime during the week. It was a perfectly innocuous reason to see someone. Nothing wrong with a cup of joe, right? Friends saw one another over a cup all the time; even friends who had been more at one point in time.<p>

She made up her mind and grabbed the phone. Indecision and unresolved issues had been the downfall of their relationship before; she'd be damned if she let those stand in the way of them rekindling their romance. She'd learned a few things since her kidnapping – namely that she needed to seize the day. Let some other things unfold at their own pace.

She stood up silently and crept up carefully to look in on the Waters women. They were sitting on the sofa, watching a children's movie one of the channels was showing. She left them to it and stalked quietly through the play areato her own room to make the call.

She closed the door, but hadn't gotten far before she heard Denzel whining on the other side of the door. She let him in and closed the door once again. She sat on the bed, petted Denzel who stationed himself at her feet, and dialled John's number. The line rang four times before she heard his familiar voice.

"Hello?"

Angel took a deep breath and then uttered hastily. "Hi John, it's Angel. Is this a bad time?"

"Oh hi, no, not at all. I was just watching some baseball. What's up?" He wondered why she would be calling him out of the blue. Well, not out of the blue, they had seen each other at Sam's award thing.

"Uh, nothing, really, I just wanted to catch up," Angel closed her eyes and scolded herself for her lack of smoothness.

"Okay..." John sounded a little amused, which only added to her mortification. "Well, I'm fine. How are you?"

"Oh, you know, I'm well."

"How's the art scene going? You sell anything lately?"

"Yeah, I sold five sculptures from my last exhibition."

"Good for you!"

"Thanks. And, I'm still tutoring those kids, every week."

"That's great."

"So, I was wondering... If you'd like to grab a cup of coffee some time?"

Her question didn't surprise him, but the fact that it'd taken her this long to get around to it did. She'd always been a straight-shooter. In fact, that was one of the things that had made her so appealing to him in the first place. But, she'd been through a lot lately, and he chalked up her hedging to that.

"Why not?" Good thing he'd never called that Roxanne Bartano back. Truth be told, he too had been more tempted to contact Angel again. Her kidnapping had affected him more than he would have anticipated, and he knew that they'd had a moment a few weeks ago while they were dancing. "When are you free?"

"How does Saturday sound?" Sam had told Angel of her plans with the Malones, and it would be a good opportunity to slink away for a few hours. Her friend would be too busy entertaining her guests to miss her if the coffee date ran later than expected.

"Fine by me. How about five o'clock at that cafe on the northeast border of Adams Park? Do you know it?"

"I know it. I'll see you then. Bye, John."

"Bye, Angel."

Angel felt delighted when she hung up the call. She bestowed a particularly affectionate petting on her dog to temper her excitement before joining Sam and Chloe in front of the tv.

* * *

><p>"Hey, did you see this?" Bailey handed her the Bureau bulletin, open on the page which contained a small blurb about her service award.<p>

She took the proffered bulletin and sat down. Anxious about what the piece might say, she quickly skimmed it, then breathed a sigh of relief. All in all, it wasn't too bad. Just a short piece, which mentioned some choice reasons why she'd been selected by the panel, a brief quote from her thank-you speech and a photo of the key members of the task force. "Thank God that's it."

"What's that now?" Marcus and George joined them at the command center's upper table. She handed Marcus the bulletin without ceremony.

"Oh yeah, Sam's ceremony," Marcus uttered as he pored over the bulletin. "Shame I had to miss it."

"Do you know how long the gang unit will need you?" George asked from Marcus.

"Nah, I get the feeling that they don't know it either. Funny how some things are run over there." Some members of the unit were, in his opinion, a little out of touch with reality. Luckily the unit had him and a few other agents who'd infiltrated gangs to advise on proceedings. "But, as long as I get my salary, I ain't complaining," he grinned. "So, what are we doing here?"

John arrived to the table as Marcus aired his question, and Bailey took charge of the conversation.

"I asked you here to confer on Sharon Lesher. Now, she's still at the Georgia women's pen, awaiting charges. We need to figure out how to keep her safe from Jack."

Sam took over. "Jack's already reached out to her, sent her a rose. That gift was to silence her. For the time being, I think it will do the trick. She's still too under his spell to give him up."

"Do you think she ever will?" John enquired.

"Maybe. To her, Jack represented a way to escape who she'd been, but she didn't succumb to his power completely. She still retains that sense of seeking her own way in the world. In some ways, she's very much a child. I doubt she's grasped the finality of death. If I can get through to her and convince her that Jack will kill her no matter what, she might act of out self-preservation and tell us what we need to know," Sam estimated.

"So what can we do in the mean time to make sure she stays alive?" Marcus queried.

"We'll have to take a closer look at personnel, sniff out any suspicious absences, inspect new correctional officers carefully. We already have access to the camera feed from her cell," Bailey advised.

John considered how the tighter security might influence the killer's plans. "Could Jack just hire someone to kill her?"

Sam shook her head. "No, he wouldn't. He's never tasked his kills to anyone else. He enjoys watching his victims die too much. Jack will kill her himself. It's just a matter of timing."

Bailey considered the way Jack had found his disciple. "Do you think we should take a look at her fellow inmates?"

"You're thinking that Jack might task out the murder to a convict?" Sam asked.

"Or just try to extract some information about the prison," Bailey pointed out.

She mulled over his words. "That's a possibility. We should look into it."

"John and Marcus, contact the social worker and the priest at the prison. Ask if there's been any out-of-character disruption in the life of an inmate," Bailey instructed the men.

"Like someone taking up or changing correspondence, someone halting family visits, that kind of thing," Sam added.

"I'll set up your visit with the warden. The sooner we get a handle on this thing, the better," Bailey stated.

* * *

><p>Angel drummed her trimmed nails on the gleaning surface of the high window table while she gazed out of the window, waiting for John. She checked her watch again. Ten past five. She chalked up his tardiness to the traffic. She knew that he would have called her if he were detained by work or something else.<p>

Luckily the cafe was short on customers, so she could reserve a seat without angry glares from patrons who already had a drink in hand. People were probably busying themselves with dinner plans at this time of day.

She was about to check her cell phone when she noticed a familiar figure rushing down the street. She abandoned her seat to greet John, who entered the intimate cafe. "Hi Angel, I'm sorry about being late," he apologised right off the bat. "There had been a car crash at the corner of Mason and Tyler, so the traffic was jammed."

"No need to apologise," Angel reassured him. "Shall we?" At his nod, they advanced to the till and ordered their hot beverages. They chose a table for two in a secluded corner at the back of the cafe.

Angel took a sip from her coffee. "Mm, too hot. Better let it cool for a while."

John nodded without a word, regarding her curiously. She looked beautiful.

"So, how have you been?"

She gave him a smile. "Oh, I can't complain. Everything's starting to feel normal again," she remarked, alluding to her ordeal weeks ago.

"That's good."

"How's catching bad guys treating you?" she eyed him soberly.

"Can't complain," he quipped. "We've had a few tough ones. But, that's how it goes, I guess."

"I guess."

There was a lull in the conversation, with both sipping their drinks, wondering whether to discuss something harmless or the reason she'd called him and why he'd agreed to her invitation.

She was the one to bite the bullet. "So, I called you and asked you here because..." She paused her explanation, trying to compose her next reason into a sentence that wouldn't have him turning tail and running. "Because I think we had a moment, at Sam's ceremony, I mean. I know that it felt like one to me, at least."

"I agree, we did have a moment."

A relieved smile blossomed on Angel's face. "Okay. That's good. I just wanted to know how you felt and if you thought we should... pursue it," she finished with a question in her voice.

"We definitely should," he responded. They shared a smile.

* * *

><p>Frances and Bailey stepped into the former fire station, and she halted in her tracks, marveling at Angel's sculptures. "Wow. Who created these?" The last time she'd been at Sam's house, the hall had been littered with huge scraps of metal. Now, it was strewn with fun and beautiful pieces of art.<p>

"Angel, Sam's roommate and best friend since childhood. She's a sculptor."

"Really? That's very cool."

"Come on, we're late as it is," Bailey pleaded, his impatience getting the better of him.

"Hey, don't blame me for not factoring in the time we'd take to pick up a bouquet for our hostess," she admonished her dad playfully as she followed him through the metallic art work.

"I'm sure Sam isn't expecting it."

"Then she will be all the more pleasantly surprised. Whoa!" Frances exclaimed in amazement as her dad placed his left palm on a device that scanned it with a light. "What the heck is that?"

"It's a palm reader," Bailey explained.

"I'm pretty sure that didn't come with the house," she remarked as she heard the whir of the moving elevator.

"Didn't you notice it when you came here for your portrait?"

"The agents outside called her and she came downstairs to get me. No one used the reader," she informed him.

The elevator dinged its arrival on the ground floor. "I'm guessing it's a part of the security measures. Along with the cameras inside the house." At his slightly guarded look, she reassured him: "Don't worry, I won't bring it up with Sam. I'm not that insensitive."

"I never said you were, sweetheart."

* * *

><p>At the sound of the elevator moving, Sam sprung into action. She went into her room, took off her college sweater and changed into her loose, grey knit sweater. She then walked swiftly to the kitchen to stir the sauce she was cooking. Denzel trotted to the elevator to inspect and greet the guests.<p>

Her daughter was in her room, reading a fairy tale book. "Chloe, Uncle Bailey and Frances are here." The little girl came running from the room and made a beeline to the door. Sam turned down the heat on the sauce, gave it one final stir and made her way to the elevator.

Chloe was already opening the inside door when she walked up. Denzel barked a few times out of excitement, but she and Chloe were able to shush him quickly.

"Hi! Come on in, you two," Sam invited her guests in.

"Hi Uncle Bailey," Chloe exclaimed.

"Hi Sam, hi Chloe." Bailey picked up the little girl and introduced her to his own daughter. "Chloe, I'd like you to meet my daughter, Frances."

"Hello," Chloe said, regarding the young woman curiously.

"Hi Chloe, it's so nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you," Frances said amicably. Chloe smiled widely but remained silent, still inspecting the brunette. Frances reciprocated her smile and turned to Sam. "Here's a little something to thank you for inviting us over."

Frances handed the bouquet over to her, and Sam thanked her profusely. "Thank you so much, you shouldn't have." Frances gave her dad a pointed look because of Sam's pleased smile.

"Is this your dog, Chloe?" Frances referred to Denzel as she offered him the back of her hand for smelling.

"No, Denzel is Angel's dog," Chloe explained. "I've taught him a few tricks. Would you like to see them?"

"Sure!"

Bailey set Chloe down on the floor and took Frances' coat before the girls and the dog disappeared into the play area. Sam and Bailey shared a smile. It seemed like the girls would get along famously.

"Come on in, Bail. I need to go look in on the sauce," Sam excused herself and dashed off to the kitchen with the bouquet in hand. He hung up his and Frances' coats and then followed her.

Sam stood at the stove, a spatula in one hand while she shook the kettle that contained the sauce.

"Smells delicious. What are you cooking?" Sam gave him a grateful smile before informing him: "I'm making a mushroom sauce for salmon. It's just about ready. Then, the salmon goes in the oven for an hour."

She watched on as he opened one of the cupboards and took out a vase for the flowers. He then approached her, took the spatula from her and gave her the vase. She took the hint and abandoned the stove to open the paper wrappings on the small kitchen table.

The bouquet was small but beautiful; it was made of magenta and purple lilies of the Incas. Sam gushed her praise: "It's absolutely lovely, Bail. Thank you." She kissed him softly on his cheek before filling the vase with water.

"You're very welcome. Frances helped in the selection," he said, fudging the truth a little.

"I'll be sure to thank her, too," she murmured with a gratified smile still dancing on her features as she arranged the flowers in the vase.

"There, that'll do. How's the sauce?" She sauntered up to his side to take a look.

"You tell me," he deferred to her experience with the condiment.

"Mm, it's ready. Turn off the heat, will you?" she requested as she opened the fridge and took out an oven dish containing the salmon. She positioned the dish on the little kitchen worktop next to the stove, grabbed the kettle and poured the sauce on top of the salmon. He anticipated her next request and opened the oven door for her. She put the dish in the oven and checked the clock on the microwave. "So, dinner will be ready twenty past seven. What would you like to drink?"

"Do you have any beer?"

"Yes, I do. In fact, I think I'll join you," she winked at him. She retrieved two bottles of the beverage from the fridge, uncorked them and handed one to Bailey. They clinked their bottles together and took a sip. "Come on, let's sit down."

They sat down at the kitchen table, giving Sam another opportunity to admire the stunning bouquet. "It really is lovely. It's the first bouquet we've had in here in a long time."

"What about the one you got on the night of your gala?"

"I forgot to take it with me," she admitted to her relapse in memory.

Bailey thought about the evening in question. He wondered what had become of her date, Rick something. "Speaking of that night, did you ever see your date again? You haven't mentioned him," he pointed out.

Her eyes widened slightly, as if she were surprised. "You know, I haven't. I haven't seen him, haven't called him," she owned with an embarrassed smile. "Haven't really even thought of him at all," she confessed. "He was a nice enough guy, but... I guess I'm not really looking for anyone right now, you know?"

She'd spoken the truth; she felt like she was getting to a place where she felt... like everything was in its place.

She remembered his date for the evening. "How about you? Have you heard from Ellen?"

"No, we haven't seen each other since that night." He paused for a while. "I think the exact expression is: 'she blew me off'."

The news surprised Sam. The woman had seemed pretty infatuated with her friend. "That's too bad. I'm sorry," she commiserated with him. She wondered if she should ask if he knew why Ellen had given him the boot, but decided against it. It might drudge up some sore feelings, and hey, if the woman didn't appreciate her friend enough to stay with him, he was better off without her.

He was twirling the beer bottle on the table. "It's fine. And, I think I'm sort of in the place that you are. I want to focus on enjoying Frannie's company before she moves away to college."

"Has she decided on a college yet?"

"She's leaning toward the state college in Macon. She's studying hard, trying to complete all the requirements for graduation. It might drag into summer, but luckily, the college has a rolling admission policy."

"Still, she'd stay in Georgia. That's great. Speaking of, I'm gonna go ask if the girls need anything." She excused herself and looked in on the duo. Frances and Chloe didn't want anything to drink, so she left them to their own devices.

"So, you ready for a crash course on touch football? You haven't found the tapes, have you?"

"I haven't, so go ahead, lay it on me," she remarked, sat down at the kitchen table and hunkered down for a repeat lesson.

"So, you probably remember that there's no tackling in the game. Each side has eleven players on the field. During the huddle we..." Sam cut off Bailey's explanation with a held-up hand.

"What's a huddle?" she asked, dead serious.

"Uh..." he hesitated, thinking to himself that two hours might not suffice, afer all.

Suddenly, she flashed a devious grin at him. "I'm just messing with you, I know what a huddle is," she revealed and gave him a little playful push at the shoulder. He gave her as stern a look as he could muster.

"But that's all I know. I swear," she asserted, smiling conspiratorially, and he found it impossible not to respond in kind.

* * *

><p>Sam had just switched off the television when Angel returned home.<p>

"Hey. You're back late."

"I warned you I might go to the movies, didn't I?" Angel asked, taking off her coat. She didn't intend to tell Sam about John, not yet. Besides, she had gone to the movies; she was just omitting a mention of her companion.

Recollection sparked in Sam's mind. "Oh, that's right."

"Another glorious example of your selective memory," Angel chuckled. "How was your dinner?"

"We had a good time," Sam responded with a happy smile.

Her friend's smile led Angel to ask: "Oh yeah? What did you get up to?"

"Well, Chloe and Frances played with Denzel, and Bail gave me a refresher course on touch football."

"Oh, is the league going again?"

"Yeah. If you want to play, I'm sure you could contact John, see if he'd be able to squeeze you in."

Angel tried her best not to look as pleased as punch. "Maybe. You know, that's twice now that you've gone to Bailey for tips instead of me," she pointed out.

Sam shrugged her shoulders. Bailey helping her seemed like the most natural thing in the world. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you have this tendency to take sports... really, the whole concept of working out..." Sam hedged to come up with a polite description whilst Angel looked at her expectantly. "Intensely," Sam concluded.

"Good save," Angel acknowledged.

"I wanted to ask you something. About Rick." Sam continued at Angel's nod. "I haven't called him, he hasn't called me since the date. I don't think it's gonna go anywhere, at least from my side. You think I should give him a call?"

"Just to tell him that? Well... Perhaps. I mean, it might spare the both of you some awkwardness in your future encounters."

"Yeah, better to make a clean break from this dating business and carry on as polite acquaintances," Sam agreed. She would make the call tomorrow.

"You haven't walked Denzel, have you?" Sam shook her head. "Okay, I'm taking him on a brief walk." Angel yelled her dog's name softly, and Denzel came to his mistress, his tail wagging all the more when he saw the leash in Angel's hand.

Sam remained on the sofa as they headed out. She leafed through a psychology journal and found that she couldn't focus on any article for long. She'd save the up-keep of her psychology know-how for another day. Bailey had told her that Frances was considering psychology as her minor.

Speaking of the man, she smiled at the memory of Bailey's stupefied expression at her small deception. Such a priceless little moment. One that deserved another. She would have to keep her eyes open for another occasion like it.


	5. Flaxen Hair Blowing in the Breeze

**FLAXEN HAIR BLOWING IN THE BREEZE**

Jack turned the key in the lock. He opened the door to a small, spartan office room, which contained the bare minimum of office equipment: a chair, a desk, a computer, a phone and a filing cabinet. Just enough so as to not sound off any alarms among the personnel of the rental office building.

It was night time, so he could come and go as he pleased without prying eyes. He'd fed a lie about doing business with small corporations in Asia, thereby accounting for his curious office hours as well as for his insistence that the security guard keep the office out of his rotation.

Hidden high up in one corner there was a state-of-the-art video camera. A cord spanned from the camera to the computer. He stepped in front of the window and strained his vision, blocking the video camera. He could just about make out the fire station house. Luckily the camera's objective was able to zoom that much closer.

He switched on the computer, then returned to the window and lit up a cigarette. He was fairly certain that the odious date from the gala hadn't reappeared at Sam's door in two weeks, but he needed to be sure. By the time the night was over, he would know for sure.

* * *

><p>Blinking his eyes, Jack realised that the sunlight was beginning to stream in the room. He glanced at his watch. It was 6.34 am. He'd been staring at the small computer screen for more than six hours. Only one more day's worth of recording to fast forward through.<p>

He was inordinately pleased that so far, there had been no sign of the man. In fact, hardly any visitors had come to the house. He kept his eyes to the screen, his gaze intent on the area in front of the fire station. He paused the recording and rewound a little, then let it play at normal speed. Sam had stepped out of the door, seemingly in a hurry. Her hair flew in her face, she brushed it off in one swift motion and proceeded to step out of the frame, from the looks of it heading straight ahead. He guessed that she'd needed to pop into one of the small grocery stores.

He kept the recording replaying at normal speed, and five minutes later, she entered the frame again, with a small plastic bag dangling from her bent-up elbow. She opened the door quickly and disappeared through it.

He fast-forwarded the recording again. After a while, a black SUV parked in front of the house. He slowed down the fast-forward and watched as Malone and his daughter emerged from the vehicle. One corner of his lips tightened and strained up when he saw them entering the house with a key. Sam had had company last night. For four hours, he surmised from the passage of the recording on fast-forward. At the end of the evening, the dark-haired girl seated herself in the driver's seat while Malone settled into the passenger seat.

He lit up a cigarette, his last, threw the empty carton into the trash and closed his eyes. He was tempted to bring a picture of Sam into the office. The sight would soothe his tired and irritated mood. But, he couldn't chance it, for fear of the building being raided by law enforcement, for one reason or another. He opened his eyes, a thought occurring to him. Maybe he could bring the copy of her baby picture. No one would ever recognise Sam from it, and if someone were to see it, they would just think that the photo was of his daughter.

With up-lifted spirits, he inspected the rest of the recording, then deleted the footage and set the camera to record the upcoming week. He would go home, catch some shut eye, then write a letter.


	6. Love and Anger Come as a Pair

_(Thanks to demonchilde!)_

**LOVE AND ANGER COME AS A PAIR**

John and Marcus knocked on the door of the social worker's office at the women's penitentiary. Sheila Morris hastened to open the door and usher her visitors in. She was a rotund, tall woman with blue eyes and strikingly red hair. She greeted the agents with a firm hand shake and bid them to sit down.

John waited for the woman to be stationed behind her desk before he launched his enquiry. "Thank you for taking the time to see us. I hope the warden explained to you why we wanted to talk to you."

"He did indeed, and here you are, despite my fierce objection," she disguised the sting in her words with a sweet smile.

"And your objection would be? We're trying to suss out whether one of your inmates might be in peril," Marcus interjected.

"And in the process, I assume you want me to encroach the trust I have earned with my inmates."

"The situation is no different from the obligation of a psychologist having to inform law enforcement of a patient who might be a danger to others," John pointed out.

Morris pursed her lips but remained silent. John took her reticence as permission to go on. "So, have there been any curious changes in routine? Has someone halted family visits or conjugal visits, for instance, in the last months?"

The woman perused a notepad. "Nothing has stood out, to be frank. The boyfriends of a few inmates have stopped coming, but that isn't unusual. The reason usually is that the boyfriends themselves have landed in prison."

"Nevertheless, we'd be grateful if you could give us the names of those inmates. We'd like to check up on them," Marcus said.

"What about someone taking up correspondence, or behaving in an unusual way?" John enquired.

"Some inmates have begun corresponding with someone," Morris informed them.

"It's vital that we get the names of those inmates," John pleaded. "I can't tell you the specifics, but it's very important."

"As you wish. I have them here," Morris replied, tore a paper from her notepad and handed it over to John.

"Thank you for your help. We'll be in touch."

* * *

><p>Sam blew out a breath, picked up the receiver of her office phone and dialled the number she'd called three times before. She was trying to reach Mrs Lowry, the mother of the fourth victim in the Tuscaloosa killings. Her previous calls had gone to an answering machine, and the mother hadn't called her back despite the fact that she had stressed the import of the matter and had left her phone number. She'd give it one more try before she'd inform Bailey. Then, they'd have to think of another lead to chase down.<p>

The answering machine picked up the call. "Mrs Lowry, it's Doctor Sam Waters from the FBI again. I wish you would call me back." Sam took a beat. "I know that nothing will bring your daughter back to you. I can't even begin to imagine your grief. But, you have a chance to do your part in making sure that no other mother loses their child," she continued. "This will be the last time I trouble you. I'm very sorry for your loss. Goodbye," she hung up and sighed, staring at the phone with tired eyes.

Bailey stepped into her office and caught her sigh. "Hey. What's wrong?"

"Oh, I just called Mrs Lowry again, for the fourth time," she replied and bit her lip. "The whole thing is just so sad."

"Sounds like your going to see her in person wouldn't make any difference," he commiserated with her as he sat down on the chair facing her.

"No, it wouldn't. She's too consumed by grief. I guess the best thing is just to wait and see if she changes her mind," Sam agreed. "What's up?"

"John and Marcus got back from the prison. The social worker gave them seven names to check out," he explained and handed the piece of paper to her. "George is already gathering information on them." She nodded, studying the names.

"If something comes up on these, this could be exactly the thing that gets through to Lesher," she mused.

"Here's hoping," he said as he made to leave her office. He stopped at the door and walked back to her. "Oh, John told me that there will be a game on Saturday. You ready for that?" he asked with a twinkle in his eyes.

"I think so, as long as you don't get injured this week." At his puzzled look, she explained: "I need you to tell me what's what during..." He interjected: "During the huddle?"

"Yes, during the huddle." They shared a wry smile.

* * *

><p>Angel looked around her, inspecting the now-familiar surrounding of the room. She'd been coming to the therapist's office for months now. Sam had recommended that she go to counselling in the aftermath of her kidnapping, adding that Angel could always talk to her, but she might benefit from talking everything over with someone who hadn't been a party in the crime. So, she'd gone to Doctor Bender, a soft-spoken therapist with years on the job.<p>

They were wrapping up their session. Angel had divulged that she and John were rekindling their romance, and the therapist had gently steered her to examine her reasons for pursuing the failed relationship again. Far from leading her to doubt the validity of the relationship, she now felt more in control, and was quite eager to resume the connection with John.

She called John shortly after the session ended. She asked if it'd be okay for her to play in the game. He gladly accepted her participation, and they made plans to go on a long hike on Sunday with Denzel.

* * *

><p>Late on Tuesday, Sam stepped into her office to see the message light blinking away on her phone. She pressed the button and listened to the recording. "You have one new message. [beep] Doctor Waters? This is Mrs Lowry. I thought about what you said. I want to help. Call me and we'll fix a time when you can come see me. Bye."<p>

Sam called her back instantly and arranged a time for a visit. Sam would take the chopper to meet herthe next day**. **

Then, she gathered her stuff and walked over to Bailey's office to apprise him of her plans. The agents were beginning to head on home. John was still sitting at his desk, forever hopeful for catching a break, even late at night.

She knocked on Bailey's office door and stepped in quietly. He'd been studying some papers, and looked up, happy for a reprieve. She joined him on the sofa. "Hey, what are you working on?"

He showed her the cover file for his papers. "I'm revising the budget proposal for the rest of the year."

"Yeah? Does it still pay to catch bad guys?" she asked with a smile, settling into a comfortable position.

"Just about," he remarked with a raised brow.

"So I don't have to resume my fledgling career as a photographer any time soon?" she quipped.

"You'll be the first to know," he responded.

She levelled a curious look at him. "What about you? What would you do without the task force? No, let me rephrase that. What would you do without the FBI in your life?" She was truly curious about the matter. Bailey and the Bureau seemed like a match made in heaven. She couldn't really picture him doing anything else.

"No one's asked me that in a long time, if ever," he informed her and started musing. What could he be doing now, if he weren't running the task force? He didn't really remember a time when he didn't feel compelled to help others to the best of his ability, thereby accounting for his current career. Had he ever considered, even dreamed of another occupation?

She watched him as he pondered his reply to her enquiry. He looked straight ahead, lost in thought, and his hands took on a life of their own. The fingers of his left hand started drumming the fabric of the sofa's arm chair, while his right hand's fingers played with the bracelet he always had on his left arm. She looked on, captivated by the liveliness of his hands. A contented smile formed on her face.

He remained silent for another minute, then turned to face her. "Well, I don't really remember a time when I didn't want to work in law enforcement. But, I'll have you know that I did plan that if I didn't make it as an agent, I'd become a cook."

She did a double take, then looked to her side and back at him. His reply had surprised her, to be sure. "A cook?" she repeated, with a happy, yet baffled look.

"Yes. My mother's side of the family is Italian, and my grandfather used to run a restaurant. Even my uncles cooked. They taught me."

She smiled, trying to picture an eleven-year-old Bailey following cooking instructions from his granddad. "And to think, you've never cooked for me. What does a girl need to do to get a ready-cooked meal around here?" she asked in a mock-peeved tone.

"All you've had to do is ask," he said matter-of-factly.

She did as he advised. "Okay, I'm officially asking. When will you cook for me?"

Her eagerness was endearing. "How about on Saturday, after the game?"

Her face clouded with the reminder of the upcoming game. "You've got yourself a date. That should make up for a day of anxiety and possible humiliation," she finished glumly.

* * *

><p>On Wednesday, George, Bailey, Sam, John and Marcus discussed the female inmates in the command center.<p>

"George, let's hear it," Bailey opened the floor for the computer whiz.

"John and Marcus gave me seven inmates to run. Out of those seven, there were four inmates whose boyfriends or husbands had stopped visits, and three who'd taken up correspondence," George recapped as he pulled up the rap sheets of each inmate onto the main frame screen. "The boyfriends of three inmates stopped coming because they themselves are serving time. That leaves one inmate in this category." George zeroed in on a picture of a brunette on the screen.

"Meet Jane Morrison. Convicted in May 1996 of aggravated assault. She beat up a wealthy business woman who cut in line in front of her at a store. Morrison's boyfriend stopped visiting two months ago."

"Do we know who or where he is?"

"His name is Don Sears. Originally from Cheyenne, Wyoming, he now resides in Gainesville, Georgia. He works as a mechanic at a small auto body shop."

"Any criminal record?" John asked.

George shook his head. "No, looks like he's been able to keep his nose clean."

"Let's talk to him," Bailey concluded and signalled to Marcus and John that they were to handle it.

"What about the inmates who have started writing to someone?" Sam asked.

George highlighted three photos on the screen. "That'd be Ann McCreedy, Ricki Samson and Leslie Jones."

"What's their story?" Marcus enquired.

"McCreedy is doing a four-year sentence for insurance fraud. Samson was busted for possession with intent to sell. She's serving a eleven-year sentence, and she's in her third year. Jones was convicted of assault with a deadly weapon. She was sentenced this January to nine years."

"What do you think?" Bailey shot Sam a look.

Sam pondered the facts that had just been presented. "I think Samson or Jones are the ones who'd attract Jack's attention. Still, I want to take a closer look at all seven."

"I'll ask for their files from the prison, the local pds and the district attorney's offices. Good work, everyone." John and Marcus stayed seated at the table whilst Bailey strode off, making his way to the office. Sam ran to catch up with him.

"Hey Bail, I just wanted to remind you that I'll be heading to Tuscaloosa within the hour."

"Okay. You have everything you need?"

"I should. I don't think I'll make it back before early evening, though."

"Don't worry, I'll say good night to your trophy for you." He laughed as she walked away from him, muttering: "Very funny."

* * *

><p>Sam knocked on the door of Mrs Lowry's house. The mother lived in a neighbourhood that had seen better days; some houses looked run-down while many others had "for sale" signs posted on the lawn. The sun shone on the few potted plants on the patio. Sam knocked again, more loudly this time.<p>

"I'm coming!" she heard Mrs Lowry saying from inside the house. Quick steps came up to the door. Sam waited as the woman looked through the peep-hole, then opened the door slightly, standing in the doorway. "Can I see your badge?"

Sam nodded and rifled her bag for her credentials. Having found them, she handed them over to the woman, who inspected them carefully. Mrs Lowry relinquished the badge. "Thank you. Come on in." Sam walked after the woman through a small hallway into the living room. She laid her bag on the floor as the mother fidgeted nervously. "I made coffee, in case you'd want some. I have tea, too," the woman offered.

"Thank you, I'll have a cup of coffee," Sam replied politely.

"Make yourself at home," Mrs Lowry uttered and walked to the right, ostensibly the kitchen. Sam took a seat on the sofa and looked around the room. The small side table had a few photo frames, of Mrs Lowry and Mia, her daughter. Sam noticed a stack of closed cardboard boxes in one corner. Possessions of Mia, Sam guessed.

Mrs Lowry sashayed to the room, two cups of hot coffee in hand. She gave one to Sam and sat down on an armchair. The mother took a sip of her beverage, then shifted her eyes to Sam. "So, Agent Waters, how may I help you?"

Sam was about to tell the woman to call her Sam when she nixed the idea. Keeping the matter as official as possible could help the grieving mother cope better. "Something has come up in the investigation. It might be a significant lead."

"What kind of a lead?"

Sam fished out a file out of her bag. "At the other... crime scenes, a chess board was present. Could we perhaps send an agent from the local branch to go through your daughter's possessions?" she added and waited for the mother to consider if she was up to letting someone invade her daughter's privacy. Mrs Lowry rubbed her hands together and nodded her consent. She wanted to help, but she wasn't about to tear open old wounds.

"To your knowledge, did Mia own a chess board to begin with?" Sam asked.

The woman's eyes flitted over the photo as she thought about the enquiry. She shook her head. "No, I don't recall her having any chess board. She didn't even play chess," she concluded and let the photo rest on the table. "How is a chess board significant?"

"It looks like the killer brought it with him. It might be a clue as to the motivation of the killer."

Mrs Lowry took another sip. "I'm sorry I was so stubborn before... I just thought that it'd hurt less, if I tried to shut out the world," she sighed.

"No need to apologise. Would you like to tell me about your daughter?" The mother gave her a startled look. "You don't need to. It's just that the better I know Mia, the better chance I have of catching the killer."

The woman looked hesitant. "I can come back. You don't need to tell me now," Sam amended her request.

Mrs Lowry took a deep breath, then replied: "No, that won't be necessary. What do you want to know?"

* * *

><p>Sam was walking toward the elevator of the fire house when her cell phone rang. She recognised the number as belonging to the switch board of the task force. Groaning silently, she picked up the call.<p>

"Doctor Waters? I have a caller from the Sander Institute on the line. She says it's about an Elliot Wykoff. Do you want me to connect the call?"

Wykoff, the psychic whose wife was murdered by the his close friend? The last she'd seen him was in Atlanta general hospital, the day after he'd been admitted there. She'd been compelled to go see him after the diagnosis, as she felt like they'd formed a bond of some sorts.

"Thank you, connect the call," she advised the switchboard operator. "This is Doctor Samantha Waters."

"Doctor Waters, I hope my call isn't an imposition to you. I'm Doctor Simons, Mr Wykoff's psychotherapist. Mr Wykoff supplied me with your name and how to get in touch with you."

"Can I help you or Elliot in some way?"

"Well, he has been out of catatonia for three months now. I'm sure you're aware why mr Wykoff went into catatonia, and therefore I deemed it wise to contact you, to ask if you could visit him and possibly give him some closure on the death of his wife."

"I see."

"I have every faith in the world that any information on the matter would speed up his recovery."

"Yes, I believe you're correct. I can share with him what happened after he went into catatonia."

"Splendid. Could you come and visit my patient during one of our sessions? I intend to be present when you reveal the details to him. I'm sure you understand why."

"Of course I do. When will you have your next session?"

"We have sessions three times a week. Our next one will be tomorrow, at four in the afternoon," the woman informed Sam.

Sam thought over her plans for the day. "I should be able to make it."

"Our institute is on the outskirts of Atlanta. The address is 121 Lerner Road."

"Thank you, I will see you then."

* * *

><p>First thing the next morning, Sam walked into Bailey's office to bring him up to speed about Mrs Lowry. "Hey, good morning. You busy?" she greeted his friend who was reading a file on his desk. He looked up and smiled at her. "No, come in. How did the thing with Mrs Lowry go?"<p>

"It was good. She agreed to let a local agent come by and sort through Mia's belongings, to see if a chess board's in there. She hired a company to clean out her daughter's apartment."

"How did she seem to you?"

"Ah... she's still very much in the process of grieving, let's put it that way."

"I can imagine," he sighed. "Do you have a better handle on Mia's personality, now?"

"Yeah, I do. Let's hope we catch a break sometime."

"Well, I've sent out a bulletin to local police departments in Alabama to be on the lookout of out-of-place chess boards."

"Yep." She knew she'd have to skip out a few hours early and would therefore need to okay it with him, but she hesitated. She didn't want to reveal where she was going, lest it cause some friction between them. She was determined to go, regardless of his opinion. But she took the easy way out.

"Do you mind if I take off a little early today? I need to do a thing for Chloe's school."

"Another job presentation?" he asked innocently, looking amused.

She felt a small pang in her heart when she expanded her lie. "No, it's some PTA meeting for the summer vacation celebration."

He readily accepted her reply. "Of course you can leave early."

"Okay, thanks." She offered him a weak smile, turned on her heels and left his office. She felt rotten.

* * *

><p>Sam was sitting in the lounge of the institute. The establishment was situated in an old building, but the inside premises had been renovated to look contemporary. She took out her cell phone and switched it on mute, silently hoping that no one would try to contact her. She'd fed Bailey a lie about an errand she needed to run on Chloe's school's behalf. She felt bad about it. She always felt uneasy when she and Bailey weren't seeing eye to eye, even though in this case, he wasn't even aware of it. She'd have to come clean later. And it occurred to her as an afterthought that it might do some good to think about the causes of her unease.<p>

Sam snapped out of her musings when she heard her name. "Doctor Waters? I'm Doctor Anna Simons. Pleased to meet you." Sam shook hands with the psychotherapist. "If you'd follow me," Simons uttered and led the way through the lounge, beyond a few double doors.

"Here are we." Simons opened the door and Sam entered the office. It was neatly organised, with high filing cabinets standing next to one another. The windows were big and clean, inviting the sunshine to stream in. There was a desk, a leather chair behind it and two arm chairs in front of it.

"Agent Waters," Wykoff greeted her warmly from a worn-out arm chair. He didn't extend his hand in greeting, and she hadn't even intended to offer hers. She didn't want to burden him unduly with her tragedies.

"Please, call me Sam. I'm relieved to see you doing this well."

"I'm happy to see you again. Thank you for coming," the man said affably.

Sam sat down next to Elliot, while his psychotherapist took her seat behind the desk. After doing so, she cleared her throat. "So, I think we all know the reason why we're here." She turned silent, waiting for Elliot to take charge of the conversation, which was vital to his recovery. He'd been victimized by the closest friend in his life, so he needed to gain control again.

He waited for a while before voicing his question. "What happened that day? After I collapsed?"

"We arrested Hollister immediately. He was tried and found guilty of three murders. He was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole," Sam informed him gently, watching him closely. He seemed to take the news well.

"So he did kill Diane." He clasped and twisted his hands, staring out of the windows. Grieving for his beloved wife.

"I'm afraid so," she confirmed his words.

"Would he have killed me, too?" he asked, still gazing into the distance.

"He probably would have," she uttered quietly.

"Maybe I would have been better off that way," he sighed, brooding over her revelations. "Thank you for saving me and capturing him." She nodded to him, acknowledging his thank-you.

"How are you?" he asked suddenly. Taken aback, Sam looked at the doctor presiding over the discussion. She seemed focussed on her patient, not on the lookout for salacious gossip. "You were heading to a very dark place, the last time we spoke," he prodded her.

"I'm better now, thank you."

"Have you found a way to cope with your gift, so it won't destroy you?" She looked at her hands, preoccupied by the events in her life since the day he'd warned her in her office. She had come close to drowning, but had managed to keep her head above the water. Barely.

"I'm getting there," she reassured him with a fleeting smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I would like to come see you again, if I may. If it's okay with you and Doctor Simons." She wanted to know how he'd be faring in the aftermath of her revelations.

"You're more than welcome to," Elliot smiled.

* * *

><p>As was by now her habit, she was sitting in Bailey's office at the end of the day. She'd been thinking of Wykoff all day, and had decided that she should tell him about her visit. She wanted to tell him. They'd been sitting in silence, listening to some Mozart. Bailey would know the name of the piece straight away. She'd have to ask him sometime why he loved classical music so much.<p>

"I met Elliot Wykoff yesterday," she voiced, out of the blue.

Bailey shot her a perplexed look. "The man pretending to be psychic? You didn't tell me." His tone of voice conveyed his disbelief in Elliot's gift.

She remained silent, choosing not to make apologies for her behaviour.

"Well, did he want something?" Bailey prodded, seeming to think that Elliot had contacted her for some dubious gain.

"He wanted to know what had happened to Hollister. He didn't try to con me," she added. At his surprised look, she continued: "Come on, I can tell from the tone of your voice that you still believe that he's faking his gift."

"I don't know why you believe him," he retorted.

She sighed and debated in her mind how much to tell him of her dealings with the fragile psychic. She suspected that he wouldn't react too kindly to her confession that she'd allowed Wykoff access to some artefacts Jack had handled.

"He told me a few things about me that made me believe in him," she began. "He knew that as a child, I idolized my mother and that we did crossword puzzles together. He could also tell that Jack was stalking me."

The last sentence drew his attention. "Where were you when this happened?"

"In my office," she admitted.

"So he could have known about Jack from your notice board," he pointed out.

"But not about the crossword puzzles with my mother. That's something only Angel knew at the time," she countered heatedly.

"Point taken," he relented, although he still didn't sound convinced.

She decided to tell him about the events leading up to Hollister's arrest. At the time, she'd claimed to have been at the house for interviewing Wykoff about the case. In short, she'd skirted around the truth.

She suspected that Bailey might blow a fuse, a reaction that was warranted, since she'd acted against regulations. She wondered briefly which he'd resent more: her lie or her indiscretion.

"I'm gonna tell you something I didn't reveal at the time. Remember that I was at Wykoff's house when Hollister was arrested?" At his nod she continued: "I went there that day because Wykoff offered his help with Jack." He sat up straight in his chair, a sign that he wasn't liking where the conversation was heading. In for a penny, in for a pound. "So I took some things Jack had handled to him."

He shot up from his chair and glared at her. "Sam, you should know better! You allowed someone who isn't a member of law enforcement access to vital evidence of a major case. You have any idea how much trouble we'd be in if word got around that we're careless about evidence being tainted?"

She also stood up. Anger that had been simmering below the surface at Bailey's attitude forced its way to the open air. "He hardly tainted the evidence! I kept my eyes on them the entire time, and I only took with me a dried up rose, Tom's cuff links and some letters from Jack. Wykoff only touched the rose and the cuff links."

He was looking at her with a disappointed expression. "I'm sorry, but I stand by my decision," she clenched her jaw. He raised his eyebrows in surprise at her words and withdrew to sit behind his desk. She gave him a few moments to compose himself.

He fixed her a steely look. "Don't do it again," he warned her.

She gave him a slight nod and did her best to remain civil in her response. "Do you want to hear what he told me?"

"I doubt it'll make me change my mind," he muttered.

Her temper flared. "Well, I'm gonna tell you anyway. He knew that Jack had hated and killed someone I loved. Put that in your pipe and smoke it," she fired back before turning on her heels and stomping out of his office, pissed off beyond words.

His eyes followed her as she stormed to her office. Once she was out of view, he picked up a pen and sent it flying through the air, then rubbed his face with his hands. Sure, he was pissed off at Sam for her transgression of protocol – that one was a given for a man as dedicated to enforcing the law as he was. Yet, he had to concede that in the corner of his mind, he was wondering why she had chosen to lie to him; did she really not trust him? Did she feel compelled to keep secrets from him?

Bailey remained unconvinced with Wykoff's insights into Jack. The man could have gotten those titbits from the board in Sam's room. He hadn't expected Wykoff's knowledge of Sam's mother; in light of that revelation, he had to admit that maybe the psychic wasn't faking some aspects of his gift. What was more, Sam believed in Wykoff's abilities, and he knew that Sam's wasn't a gullible person.

He should go and explain himself.

Sam reached her office, threw the door open with more force than necessary and strode to the side of her desk to gather her things. Her anger at his wilful ignorance hadn't subsided; instead, it was gaining force. Had Bailey himself talked to the man at any point? Had he even met the psychic? No, he hadn't, and yet he deferred to his own ignorance rather than her take on the matter. So, yes, she was pissed off. To wonder why she was reacting in such a volatile manner didn't cross her mind in the heat of the moment.

Speak of the devil... Bailey had entered her office while she was putting on her coat. She spared him a glare and snapped up her bag, signalling to him that her intention was to go home.

An unspoken message he got loud and clear. "Sam, I want to explain myself. Now, I know I didn't speak to him personally, but is it so hard for you to understand that simply put, I just don't believe in psychics?"

"So you question my judgement for believing Wykoff?"

"No, I don't. I trust your judgement more than anyone else's. I will admit that him knowing about your mother strikes me as... curious. So maybe he really is gifted. In any case, I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sorry if I did."

Her indignation simmered down because of his apology. "Okay. I can understand why you don't believe him," she sighed. "I'm sorry that I fed you that lie about Chloe's school."

He peered at her. "Why did you?"

She was no closer to having an answer today than yesterday. "I just did. I'm sorry," she repeated and he nodded, indicating that he'd forgiven her.

They were silent for a moment. Then Bailey asked: "How is he doing?"

"Pretty good. He's on medication, but he was lucid when I talked to him. He's been going in and out of remission ever since he was admitted. The remission periods have gotten longer. He's been in remission for three months. He'd been trying to convince his nursing team to contact me for two months before the doctor relented."

"How much did he remember of Hollister's doings?"

"He pretty much remembered all of it. He just sought confirmation. For a moment, I was afraid that knowing everything for sure would be a setback to his progress, but he seemed to take it okay."

"Any idea if he'll get out of the institute soon?"

"No, no one mentioned that. It's really up to his psychotherapist."

"I'm gonna go see him again in a few weeks. Check up on him. I think you should come with me and meet him. I liked him before, and I like him now." She looked at him carefully to see his reaction to her suggestion.

He didn't look unwilling, to her relief. "Maybe I will."


	7. Love is Just a Game

**(And once again the thanks go to demonchilde!)**

**LOVE IS JUST A GAME **

Sam surveyed the big clearing in the park with worry, feeling the first nerves before the game. As it stood, she might not have to play at all. Marcus and Grace had stepped in to fill her and Angel's shoes from the last game many months ago. She and her roommate were now relegated to being back-up players. Sam had received the news with relief, whilst Angel had been a bit disappointed, although she'd rallied her spirits quick enough.

She turned on her heels to head to the nearby table where Chloe was sitting, reading a book. Grace, Morgan and Jason were at the table; mother fussing over her baby whilst father looked on with patience. The day would turn into a picnic for the loved ones of the task force members. George had brought Richie with him, and Frances was playing with Denzel as Angel was currently running around the clearing for warm-up. Sam shook her head at her friend's eagerness and unwrapped a chocolate bar that she fished out of her jacket pocket.

A chocolate bar that someone snatched from her hand. "Hey!" she exclaimed and turned around to see a grinning Bailey. "I don't think this is a snack approved by the NFL," he intoned.

"Well, I didn't know," she responded and snatched her bar back. "It seems like someone didn't fill me in on all the details," she finished with a wry look. He accepted her admonishment with a tilt of his head, and she broke off a piece and offered it to him before biting off a piece herself. His look soured and she broke into a grin. "What is this?"

"Dark chocolate."

"Didn't you use to eat chocolate that... actually tasted good?"

"Dark chocolate's better for you," she remarked and added: "It took some getting used to, believe you me. So, you got your game face on?"

"Oh, the district attorney's office team will never know what hit them," Bailey said with a meaningful glance at the opposing team.

"Right on, Rattle snake," she teased him. "Shouldn't you and Grace head out on to the field now? Everyone else is there."

Bailey looked at the field and noticed that Sam was right. "Yeah. Grace, are you ready?"

Sam reached up to turn Bailey's baseball cap backwards, then placed her hand on his shoulder and ushered him to the clearing with a slight push. "Go win this thing, now."

* * *

><p>Angel and Chloe kept a close eye on the game whilst Sam let her mind wander a bit. She thought about the fight she'd had with Bailey last night. She was happy that they'd patched things up. She knew that disagreeing with him didn't sit well with her. Disagreements were inevitable in any friendship, she mused, and she wasn't a confrontational person by nature. She'd stand her ground if she believed in her stance, but all the same, it had taken her a few hours to relax after the fight, long after she'd actually forgiven him. Try as she did, she couldn't quite put her finger as to why this should be the case.<p>

Sam cleared her mind and observed the game for a while, asking Angel what the score was, then joining in on the cheer when Marcus scored a touchdown. She wandered over to Frances, Morgan and Jason. Richie was in charge of watching over the belongings of the team, so he was off to the side, following the game intently.

"Hey, how's Jason doing?" Sam enquired sotfly in case the baby was sleeping.

"No need to whisper, he's wide awake. You'd think that all this fresh air would put him under, but no chance," Morgan replied and looked affectionately at his son.

"He must sense that mommy is trying to win a big game," Sam uttered and smiled at the baby. "He's grown so much."

"He's gonna be as tall as his daddy, or even taller. If you'll excuse me, we're gonna go talk to Richie for a moment."

Sam and Frances waved bye to the baby and watched the father-son pair walk over to George's partner.

Sam smiled at her friend's daughter affably. "How have you been, Frances?"

Frances swallowed the candy she'd stuffed into her mouth hastily."Ah, I haven't done anything out of the ordinary. How about you?" She offered the candy box to Sam, who shook her head.

"Looking forward to tonight, that's for sure."

"Yeah, dad is a good cook. I think he's making his linguine soup. It's very good."

Sam's eyes positively lit up at Frances' estimation. "Now I really can't wait," she sighed.

"Not a big fan of touch football, I take it?" Frances asked, gesturing to the ongoing game.

"Well... I'm not the biggest sports enthusiast."

"I hear ya. Dad's always trying to get me go on a run with him."

"When does he run?" Sam hadn't known that Bailey went running.

"He usually goes on a long run on Sundays," Frances replied, shaking the last of her candy box onto her hand. "Sometimes he skips it for a ride on his Harley."

So that's what Bailey did with his Sundays, Sam mused. Another detail filled in on the everyday life of Bailey. Then she began to wonder why she hadn't known that already.

"Hey, what's going on?" Frances asked suddenly, looking intently at the field. Sam focused her attention to the game and saw that the task force members were all huddled together, with someone laying on the ground. Sam and Frances approached Angel and Chloe to be apprised of the events of the game.

"I think Christian pulled a hamstring in his leg," Angel informed them. Washington was escorted off the field with Marcus' help, with Grace hot on their heels. Sam started to get a bad feeling. Which proved correct when Bailey, having ascertained that the injury wasn't serious but needed Grace's attention for some time, declared that Angel and Sam were up.

Frances looked on as the artist left Denzel to Chloe's care and sprang to the field like a runner hopped on steroids. Her dad waited for Sam and walked to the field with her, talking to her in a quiet tone. At the end of it, she nodded her head and started to depart for parts unknown, when he quickly detained her by grabbing her hand and pulling her into a huddle. An action he repeated in the huddle, just before the players broke up. Frances got the feeling that the profiler was something of a klutz when it came to game play.

She turned out to be right.

* * *

><p>Sam's time on the field was mercifully short; Grace was able to join the game again after five minutes. In that time, Sam had managed to drop the ball just once. At least the ball hadn't hit her in the head at all. In that regard, she was showing progress. And, she had learned not to break away from the huddle too soon, so there was that, too.<p>

She surmised that she might actually learn to enjoy the sport in another twenty or so games as she rang the door bell of Bailey's house. She'd gone home to change clothes and bring with her a bottle of red wine she'd bought for the occasion. Chloe was looking at the yard and the edifice of Bailey's home curiously. Sam realised with a jolt that Chloe had never been here before.

Frances answered the door to let the Waters women in. She planned on eating with their guests and then going to the community center for a few hours. Saturday night was always surprisingly busy there.

"Hey, you made good time!" Frances marvelled at Sam. It was just over an hour after the game. Sam had taken a quick shower, thrown on the clothes she'd selected the night before and applied light make-up before heading out of the door with her daughter. She was keen on seeing Bailey cook up a storm.

"How many times can a girl expect to enjoy having her boss cook for her?" she remarked in response, winking.

Frances and Chloe greeted each other, and the older girl took care of the guests' jackets. The mother-daughter pair headed through the living room to the small kitchen area to greet Bailey.

Sam almost let out a small guffaw when she noticed that he was wearing an apron. Not a particularly funny one; it was white and plain enough, but the possibility of him donning an apron had never even occurred to her.

Her desire to laugh turned into a silly grin. She and Bailey kissed one another on the cheek, and he knelt down to give Chloe a hug. When he stood up, he caught her amused look and heard her mumbling something that sounded like 'damn'. "What?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. Just admiring your apron," she replied, her smile never faltering. "Why didn't I take my camera with me?" she rued her misfortune as her eyes took in the curious piece of clothing once more.

"It's very becoming, I know," he replied cheekily and she nodded her head in sly agreement.

"Mom, why don't you ever wear an apron?" Chloe piped up.

"Because I don't own one, honey," her mother replied.

"I think you definitely need one. Sometimes you make a mess in the kitchen," Chloe continued.

"You may be right, sweetheart. Thank you." Sam spared a fleeting look at Bailey, who'd returned to the kettle but appeared to be listening intently to the conversation. She could just picture his smile.

"I'm gonna go read," the little girl announced, walked the short distance to the sofa and was about to settle down when Frances offered another activity. "You haven't been here before, have you, Chloe? Why don't I give you the grand tour?" Chloe nodded eagerly, and so Frances gave her the lay of the land in the Malone house.

"Here," Sam offered Bailey the bottle of red wine she'd bought as a gift.

"Thank you. Can I get you something to drink?"

"Water's fine. So, what's on the menu? Frances spilled that you're making linguine soup," she said and looked around the kitchen for clues on the dishes. Alas, the countertops were spotless and free of scraps of food. Bailey ran a tight ship in his kitchen, it seemed. Must be all those lessons from his family.

"That's the main course. We're having a chicken and watercress salad for a starter, and a cheese cake for dessert."

Sam stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise, as he handed her a glass of water. "Don't tell me you bake, too?"

He shook his head. "No, that's Frannie's contribution to the evening."

She nodded, drank some of her water and gestured to the operation at hand. "Anything I can do?"

He shook his head. "No, I've got it covered. I was just about to start on the salad. The soup will be good to simmer on its own for about ten minutes."

Sam walked over to the other side of the kitchen island and sat on one bar stool, ready to watch him in action. He took the salad ingredients out of the fridge. Watercress, thin chicken cutlets, pinenuts and pears. She looked on as he chopped the watercress expertly, the blade of the knife never leaving the chopping board; he sautéed the cutlets and the nuts on the frying pan in a matter of minutes; he sliced the pears into even portions. Those hands of his again.

The two girls settled onto the sofa after the tour. Chloe breezed through her book, turning pages at a steady pace. Frances tried to focus on her reading; she had to prep for a history exam next week. But her attention was drawn, time and again, to the easy-flowing, laughter-filled conversation between her dad and his friend. She wondered if that someone better had in fact come along years ago.

* * *

><p>Chloe was back to reading her book on the sofa. She only had twenty pages to go before she'd finish her book about mice and witches. Frances was busy clearing the table, a duty she'd insisted on having all to herself.<p>

Bailey was sitting at the table with Sam, who was scraping the last crumbs of her cheese cake piece off her plate before Frances would clear the table completely. Sam had been effusive with her praise of the courses all along. He suspected that he'd really taken her by surprise with his admission to cooking, and what's more, cooking well. He mused that any two people would probably always surprise one another, no matter how well they believed to know the other.

Sam gave up the plate to Frances with her thanks, and then her dark blue eyes settled upon his hands for a while before landing on his eyes. "What?" he asked, curious about the journey of her eyes. She looked embarrassed, like she was asking herself the same question or maybe because she'd been caught out. "What?" she deflected, with a smile dancing on her features, and he let the matter slide with a shrug. He suspected that it wasn't significant, whatever it was.

"Thanks for dinner. It was delicious," she praised. "I should have guessed that you'd be a great cook."

"Why, thank you," he dead-panned.

"Then again, I can't imagine you not exceling at anything you put your mind to," she remarked.

"So, what you're saying is that I'm perfection, after all," he grinned and watched as she looked at him, befuddled by his comment. Then recognition sparked in her eyes and a smile spread across her face.

"Have you been locking your doors lately?" she asked cheekily. "Maybe that has something to do with it."

They both became aware of Frances standing beside the table, her wondering gaze considering both of them. He jumped in to explain. "An inside joke, sweetheart. From two years ago."

"Uh huh," Frances mumbled and took the last pieces of plateware off the table.

He and Sam grinned at each other, sharing the memory of their exchange. It had happened a few weeks after they'd formed the task force. Much had transpired since then. At least she was still here, he mused, unaware that Sam's train of thought resembled his.

Their joint reverie was interrupted by Frances. "Dad, you do remember that I'm heading to the center for a few hours?"

He tore his gaze from Sam's, checked the time on the wall clock and turned to his daughter. "Yes. What time will you close tonight?"

"Uh, Dan and Casey figured around ten."

"You want me to come get you at ten thirty?"

"No, I'm sure I'll be fine. But you can, if you want to," she added with a question in her tone.

"I will," he promised. Frances shot a tiny exasperated smile at her dad and ambled to her room.

"I thought she was taking the car," Sam wondered aloud, looking after Frances.

"She is. I'll drive my Harley up there," he answered.

"You do that a lot?"

"More often than you'd think," Frances piped in from her room.

"Well, the center's in a run-down neighborhood. Things get shifty there at night," he reasoned.

"And yet, I've never seen anything bad happen there," his daughter said and walked into the living room with a messenger bag on one shoulder.

"No harm in making sure," he shot back.

Frances smiled at her dad. "Yeah, no harm. Thank you for coming tonight, Sam. Bye, Chloe. See you later, dad," she rambled off as she took the car keys and walked through the door to the garage.

Bailey checked the time again. "It's five past eight. Shouldn't you be on your way?" He knew that Chloe's bedtime was at nine.

Sam glanced at her daughter, who was engrossed in her reading. "We can wait 'til she's finished her book. She's a very quick reader nowadays."

Shades of Tom, he thought to himself. Tom had been a professor of English literature, after all. "Can I get you something?"

She stifled a yawn. "Uh, any coffee left?"

He checked the coffee maker. "There is, but it's probably cooled now."

"I don't mind," she muttered, tilting her head to the left to work out a crick.

He obliged her and got up to pour her a cup of coffee. When he turned back to the table, he noticed that she had gotten up and about, too, and was currently browsing his book shelves. He walked to her and handed the cup to her without words. She took a sip of the luke-warm drink, then twisted her head to the side again to read the titles on the spines of the books.

She picked the odd book and read the blurb, then put it back. At length, she commented: "You have a lot of poetry books. Why is that?"

"When power corrupts, poetry cleanses," he recited.

"J. F. K.," she smiled at him. "Although I can't picture you as arrogant nor as having a narrow area of concern."

He should have known she'd recognize the quote. "I try my best not to," he remarked.

"Finished!" Chloe declared from the sofa and snapped her book shut, attracting the attention of the adults from their book gazing.

"Was it a good book?" he asked.

The girl smiled eagerly. "Yeah, it was."

"What was it about?"

She showed him the cover of the book. It read 'Witches'. "It was about this little boy who overhears an evil witch's plans and is turned into a mouse!" the girl explained excitedly.

"Sounds very suspenseful," he commented.

"It was!" Chloe was nodding her head emphatically.

"Sweetie, I think it's time for us to go. Bedtime's in forty minutes," Sam pointed out.

"Can't I stay up just a little longer?" Chloe pleaded her mother.

"You stayed up half an hour later last night, pumpkin. Go put the book in your bag," she ordered gently and Chloe obeyed.

She muttered to him in a low voice: "I bet you anything that she'll want to sleep with the light on. That book sounded a bit scary." He gave her a commiserating smile. She gulped down the last of her drink and gave the cup to him. He noticed that she was holding a book in her hands. "Mind if I borrow this?"

She'd chosen a collection of poems by e. e. cummings. "Not at all," he replied.

She kissed him lightly on his cheek. "Thanks for dinner, Malone."

* * *

><p>John and Marcus pulled up to a big auto body shop in the center of Gainesville. Two employees were both talking to customers outside, getting to the bottom of their car troubles. The agents accosted an employee who stepped out of a ´77 Porsche, taking a beat to admire the vehicle before getting down to business. They flashed their id's and credentials and asked for Don Sears. The young guy informed them that Sears was having his lunch in the break room, adjacent to the office on the left.<p>

John and Marcus gave the classic car one last look before heading to question Sears. They found the man eating his lunch and reading a horse racing magazine, sitting a table that had seen better days.

"Don Sears? We're Agents Grant and Payton, from the FBI. Could we ask you a few questions about Jane Morrison?"

"Why? She in trouble?" the mechanic asked tersely, still chewing his food.

"She could be a witness in an ongoing investigation," Marcus hedged.

Sears shrugged. "As long as it don't get me in trouble."

"Thank you. May we sit down?" John enquired, and the man nodded curtly.

"We understand that you knew Morrison before she went to jail," John continued.

"For about four months. I tell you, I didn't know she had it in her."

"The assault, you mean?" Marcus clarified.

"Yeah. The defense lawyer tried to peg her as an anger management case, but it didn't fly."

"You recently stopped going to the prison. Why's that?"

Sears fidgeted a little. "Why do you want to know the reason?"

"Your answer could determine whether or not Morrison is a witness, so please, just answer the question."

"Fine. I stopped going there because I met someone else. We're going to have a baby, so..."

John and Marcus looked at each other. "Thanks for your time," Marcus ended the conversation.

* * *

><p>Sam was sitting on the sofa in her office. Case files filled the sofa table, and a case file had fallen to the floor. She'd neglected to pick it up; she'd get to it after she'd read Ricki Samson's file. She'd already inspected the rap sheets of the inmates Jack would be less likely to contact, and she'd had to concur with her previous gut feeling – Jack wouldn't select them. The women were too much their own characters, some lacking any propensity for violent behavior, others possessing too much propensity for violence to be controlled.<p>

Samson could be a potential target. She was young, only 23, and had had a criminal record for petty crimes since she was 18, mostly having to with drug-related incidents. She could be influenced by Jack's interest and flattery.

Leslie Jones could be more of a wild cannon for Jack, having received a sentence for an assault with a deadly weapon. Jones had lunged at her cheating girlfriend with a knife still in its packaging at a grocery store, in plain view of an on-duty police officer. She was quick to anger, impulsive and violent.

Sam would have to talk to both of them. She was waiting for John and Marcus to inform her of the deal with Don Sears. Depending on their read on the situation, she might end up adding Jane Morrison to her list of potential pen pals of Jack's.

She put Jones' file on the table and leant down to pick up the fallen file. When she sat back up, she noticed that Bailey had come in through her open door. "Hey. How's it going?" he enquired, taking in the files on the sofa table.

"I just finished with these," she explained and started gathering the files. "I definitely want to talk to Samson and Jones. Any word from John and Marcus?"

"Not yet," he informed her as he sat down on the arm chair.

"Let me suggest something to you." His nod encouraged her to go on.

"If this inmate angle doesn't pan out, I'm thinking that we could still try to use it to our advantage. Plant a seed of doubt in Lesher's mind."

He considered her words. "It could work, provided that we keep names out of it. Don't want to make anyone a target for Lesher."

The intercom on Sam's desk buzzed and the line opened. "Sam, is Bailey there? John's on line two," the voice intoned. Bailey was at the table swiftly and talked to John in Gainesville. Sam stood up from the sofa and approached him quietly. He talked for a minute, then hung up.

"So?"

"John and Marcus talked to Sears. They got the impression that it'd been Sears who ended the visits, not Morrison."

"Any idea why?"

"Might have something to do with the baby he's about to have with another woman."

Sam took in this latest tidbit. "So Morrison is a no-go. Good. I'll go talk to the other two as soon as may be. You gonna tag along?"

He looked slightly puzzled. "Do you need me to?"

"I want you to. So, how about it?"

"Just tell me when."

* * *

><p>Sam stopped in her tracks when she heard George calling her name. She'd been on her way to see Grace, and waited for the computer expert to reach her.<p>

"The Tuscaloosa branch got back to us about Mia Lowry's possessions. The agent did find a chessboard in the boxes."

She and George walked into Grace's lab. "What about fingerprints?"

"I'll start running them as soon as the chessboard gets here. Should be only a day or two."

"Good. Remember that Mrs Lowry hired a company to pack her daughter's stuff. If any prints are found, they could belong to the movers."

"Noted," George nodded. He was about to leave the office when Sam halted him.

"Can I ask you two something?" George and Grace gazed at her, waiting for her question.

"What do you guys do for exercise?"

"I do yoga," George replied instantly. "It helps me take my mind off work," he elaborated. Sam thought to herself that it fit his personality well; after all, he'd professed to being a spiritual guy.

"What about you, Grace?"

Grace made a face. "Well, I used to go swimming. Now, all I have time for is walking our dog, carrying Jason around the house and taking him to mommy-child swimming once a week."

Marcus entered the lab and heard the last bit of Grace's words. "What's this?"

"I was just asking what George and Grace do for exercise. How about you?"

"I go boxing," he informed her.

Sam nodded her head. "Just like Bail and John."

"Why the pop quiz, Sam?" Marcus eyed the profiler curiously.

She shrugged, making light of her interest. "I think I need to start doing something for exercise." She'd been thinking of the matter ever since that first touch football game, and after the game on Saturday, she was determined to start doing something. She was looking for ideas on what that something might be.

"In that case, you should start easy, like playing catch, then work your way up to skipping rope," Marcus grinned, his thoughts centering on Sam's performance at last week's game.

"Just what are you insinuating?" she uttered with a meaningful look at Marcus.

"That you're a natural athlete, ma'am!" he remarked and followed his words with a courteous bow to her.

* * *

><p>Sam had another reason to be contemplating taking up a sport. It'd been a little over a week since she'd gone to see Wykoff. Meeting him had reminded her that she needed to find an outlet where she could let loose and work out her stress and feelings, or at least forget them for an hour. It could do miracles for her mental health.<p>

She looked at Bailey, who was sitting at his desk.

"You box and run, right? Do you do anything else for exercise?" she asked out of the blue.

"I lift some weights. Why do you want to know?" he eyed her.

"I'm thinking of improving my fitness. Marcus suggested skipping rope," she related to him, rolling her eyes.

He hid his smile. "It's very good exercise, I can tell you that much." At her wondering look, he continued: "Boxers skip rope."

"Ah. Well, so does Angel, but I doubt skipping rope is a good fit for me. I want a sport that'd keep me in shape and improve my self defense skills. As it is, I like to think of myself as..." her voice drifted off.

He waited politely for her to finish, curious to see how she'd characterize her abilities.

"Scrappy," she concluded and looked to see how he felt about her choice of words. His expression gave nothing away.

"Well, the Bureau has a class for female agents twice a week, on Mondays and Wednesdays. You should check that out."

She nodded her head slowly. "Okay, maybe I will. You heading out soon?"

"Yeah, just give me a few minutes." He started gathering some files to store in the safe. Sam took it easy on the couch, her eyes finally landing on her trophy. She should probably move it to another room. A plan formed in her mind and the corners of her mouth turned up. The trophy would leave the same way it had arrived: unannounced smuggling.

He interrupted her plotting. "Let's go."

He turned off the lights and they walked to the elevator. Bailey pushed the call button, but they didn't hear any whir of the elevator. He pushed the button again, to no avail.

"I guess it's stuck. The stairs, it is," he remarked.

"Damn," she swore under her breath.

"Think of this as beginning your life of exercise tonight." He chuckled when he heard her swearing some more.

* * *

><p>Sam, Angel and Chloe were spending their Saturday in the shops, looking for a pretty dress for Chloe to wear at her school's summer vacation celebration. Having gone to a number of shops, Angel begged for a timeout, and so the women decided to have a coffee break. They chose a small cafe that had an extensive Italian ice cream selection.<p>

They devoured their sandwiches, and Angel and Sam joined the queue again, this time to score some frozen delights. Chloe was awaiting her treat at the table. She always had the same thing, no what matter: chocolate chip.

Sam and Angel were looking at the ice cream boxes, trying to make up their minds. A resonant voice sounded in on their deliberations: "I recommend the peach and the pistachio." They looked to their left and saw a tall, fair guy, who was in his early forties. "I come here often," he offered by way of explanation, looking intently at Sam.

"Really? What about the pear flavor?" Angel chimed in, giving Sam some time to think of something witty to say.

"It's good, too. What are you having?" the man asked from Sam.

"Oh, the fudge and the chocolate," she replied nonchalantly, but politely enough. When her friend didn't come up with a rejoinder and an awkward silence threatened, Angel jumped in.

"What about the coffees?"

"They're good, too."

Sam succeeded in flagging down a waitress to serve them at the ice cream counter. The queue moved along, and the customers behind the man started to move impatiently. The man gazed at Sam, looking for signs of interest, but finding none, decided to cut his losses.

"Enjoy your ice cream, now," he uttered and started to pass them.

Angel flashed a polite smile. "Thanks for the tips."

The man was gone, and Angel turned to find Sam looking at her expectantly. The waitress repeated her question: "What can I get you?"

"Oh, two balls of pear, please," Angel ordered. She leveled a questioning look at her friend as they waited for their servings.

"What?" Sam finally asked.

"You know what. That guy was easy on the eyes and he seemed like a perfectly nice man!" Angel nudged her friend, who shrugged and made a face.

"I'm happy with the way things are at the moment," Sam explained, keeping her eye on Chloe at their table.

"But what's wrong with a little harmless flirtation?" Angel pestered her friend, quite reasonably in her own view.

Sam observed the waitress in action, who placed the last cup of ice cream on to their tray. "Like I told Bailey a few weeks ago, I'm not really looking for anyone at the moment."

Angel's look changed ever so slightly. Why would Sam bring Bailey into this? "You said that? To Bailey?"

"Yeah, I did," her friend replied matter-of-factly. "I'll get these." She walked to the counter, oblivious to the considering look Angel was giving her. Angel joined Chloe at the table, her mind now dwelling on her friend's recent, favoured choices of companionship.


	8. In You I Feel So Hungry

**(Thanks again to demonchilde!)**

**IN YOU I FEEL SO HUNGRY**

The photographer crowd had been cordoned off to the other side of the street. Fortunately, they were positioned in front of the gates leading onto the property. The driveway wasn't long, and they had a good view of the action happening in the yard as well as anyone who was present at the scene.

Jack checked surreptitiously that the press id tag he'd pinned on the label of his worn, non-descript jacket hadn't fallen off. He joined the other photographers standing behind the yellow tape, snapping photos of the proceedings. He was mindful of the GMC parked a little further down the street. As he'd suspected, the task force was present. The victim was the daughter of the Fulton county's district attorney, after all.

He fiddled with his camera, pretending to be occupied in order to avoid unnecessary conversations. Most of the time, the photographers were happy to just proceed with the job at hand and skip the chit chat, but the murder of a well-known public servant would occasionally loosen their tongues.

He snapped a few pictures for the sake of appearances, then let the camera hang on the strap from his neck and lit a cigarette. He was safely hidden in plain sight; the facade of a photographer rendered him inconspicuous. He prepared himself for the thrill of seeing Sam again. It had been weeks since he'd been this close to her. He'd observed the touch football game for a while from a distance, but had departed before long. Sitting on a bench, pretending to be reading a book would only work as a ruse for so long, and he wasn't about to make a mistake like being caught for his inordinate interest in a silly game.

She'd been wearing a loose college sweater and black exercise pants. She stood out even in such mundane clothes, Jack thought fondly. She'd been trying to follow the game, but she'd kept on getting up and going to talk to other people at the game. He'd recognised a few of the people, notably the husband of Grace Alvarez, Morgan, whom he'd almost killed. His lips had curled at the memory. He'd enjoyed the preparation of the attack, but the main attraction had been to make an impact on Sam.

He was getting a bit anxious, truth be told. He hadn't killed anyone since newspaper vendor Sharon had befriended. The anticipation of ridding his beloved Sam of her vile in-laws had never peaked to its climax, because of his protege's wilfulness. There was no way he'd be able to approach them now.

He had a few loose ends that needed to be resolved. The most pressing on his mind was, of course, Sharon. To that end, he'd acquired another loose end, one that was inconsequential enough to not give him any serious worry. He'd seen to it that nothing could be traced to him, and he'd already dispensed with the threat.

He sensed a silent, collective hum among the photogs and snapped to. Sure enough, the front door of the mansion had been opened. The others raised their cameras immediately, ready to snap photos. He delayed the action, wanting to see who was coming out. Sam strode into the sunny yard, her light blue trench coat framing her white blouse and black pencil skirt.

Jack gazed at her with a ravenous look before he remembered himself and took cover behind the camera. He looked through the lense as Sam stopped in her tracks, turning slightly back to the house, waiting for someone. Malone walked out of the house and put on shades. The sun was glaring out of the sky, but Sam had apparently forgotten her sunglasses, for she shielded her eyes with her hand. Sam and Malone fell into step and walked toward the gate.

His "colleagues" snapped a few shots of the agents and then let their cameras rest. He kept his left eye glued to the viewfinder and his left hand on the focus setting ring,pretending to be testing it out. He followed the two agents intently. They were conversing with one another, then fell silent as they reached the gate. Sam looked preoccupied with something, whereas Malone nodded courteously to the officer stationed at the gate.

Jack zoomed on Sam and took a few photos. Suddenly, her expression became animated again, and she remarked something brief to Malone. He let the camera drop and withdrew a little from the crowd, taking a couple of steps in the same direction as the agents. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed the agents' progress. They reached the car, discussing something, and they paused to exchange a few words before getting into the vehicle. She must have quipped something, since a wry smile blossomed her face and a full grin appeared on Malone's. They climbed into their seats, and Malone drove away.

He didn't gaze after the car. He needed to resume his cover again. He stepped back into the crowd, and took a few more photos before departing. He had new pictures of Sam that begged to be developed.


	9. Everything Greater than Books Might Mean

(Thanks to demonchilde again!)**  
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** EVERYTHING GREATER THAN BOOKS MIGHT MEAN**

The center where Frances was doing her court-ordered community service sat on the corner of two streets that had been, four years ago, the heatedly fought-over domain of two rival gangs. A concerted effort by the Atlanta pd's narcotics department and the Bureau had cleared out the district, with the gang leaders and their trusted bangers landing stints in the big house for decades to come. A neighbourhood association, backed by politicos, had stepped in and tried to salvage and build up the district for commercial success. The fruits of their venture had yet fully to be reaped, but at least it was safe to walk on the streets in broad daylight again.

Dan and Casey Burdell had set up the center for disadvantaged youths three years ago. They received their financial backing from companies' donations and wealthy benefactors' charity. Casey was a seasoned fundraiser, whilst Dan took charge of the day-to-day running of the center. They had three people on payroll, and they usually had a ready chorus of volunteers who'd assist the employees. The screening process for volunteers was strict; they'd only taken on Frances after several interviews. A good word from the district attorney had played a part in the decision, too.

Bailey rode on his Harley there to see that Frances would get home safely. It was another Saturday, and the center would close at ten. He arrived twenty minutes early, parked his bike a short distance from the street corner and watched the youngsters stream out of the center. He noticed Frances walk out, in pursuit of someone. She caught up with a guy in his late teens, to whom she handed a baseball cap. The guy muttered his thanks and turned on his heels to leave. Frannie headed back inside the center.

As she waded through the crowd, Bailey kept a close eye on her progress, watching the faces of the guys she passed. Ever since specialising in profiling and seeing into the depths of human baseness, he'd always been inordinately worried for any women in his life. A feeling that had ratcheted up since he'd been blessed with two daughters. He was always fighting against the urge to warn Frannie and Arianna of undue politeness toward strangers. In fact, he would prefer it if they were cold and indifferent. That'd make him rest easier.

It doesn't take much for some damaged, unhinged person to fixate on someone and proceed to make their life hell. He knew it from personal experience. He had daily proof of that.

And so, he was constantly sizing up people Frannie met at the center. So far, there had been nothing to give him unease.

The crowd streaming outside started to thin out. He turned the key in the ignition and drove the bike closer. He'd go in and greet the Burdells, then accompany Frannie home.

* * *

><p>Sam kicked off her right shoe for a while. The pair of shoes was an old one, but it had started to rub her ankle bone all of a sudden. Luckily, she was sitting with George at the upper table of the command center, so no one had an inkling about her footwear discomfort.<p>

"So, have you picked a sport yet?" George asked, letting his eyes a short respite from the constant staring at the computer screen.

"Uh, not really. Bailey mentioned a class for female agents at the Bureau gym, so I'll probably check that out," she responded.

"Great. Didn't you do any sports growing up?"

She shook her head. "No, not really. It just didn't appeal to me at all. What about you?"

"I played baseball as a kid."

"Really?"

George nodded. "I even toyed with the idea of becoming a professional."

Sam was surprised. "So you were that good, huh?"

George shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe. I like to think I was."

Sam knew that George wasn't prone to undue praise. "Then let's agree you that were."

Their discussion was caught short by the arrival of Bailey and John. They were to confer quickly about the Tuscaloosa case.

"Georgie, what's the word on the fingerprints?"

"Well, I found two sets of prints on the chessboard and was able to identify each set to an employee of the moving company. No other prints, even smudged ones."

"The killer was as careful as always," Bailey mused.

"Have no other crime scenes with extraneous chessboards come in?" Sam checked with Bailey.

"Unfortunately no," he replied.

"Maybe we should try casting a bigger net," Sam suggested.

"And make the chessboard quiry national?" Bailey followed Sam's train of thought. "George, put that in motion as soon as you can."

"Can you wager a guess about the significance of the chessboards now?" John prompted.

Sam gathered her thoughts before replying. "They are tied to the signature of the killer, so he gets some kind of satisfaction from bringing them to the scene. But then, he doesn't make the victim a part of the game. Mia Lowry didn't even know how to play. The killer wouldn't bother to teach the rules of chess, nor is there any physical evidence that would support that."

"The only correlation I see between the killings and chess is that each move is meticulously planned, even though the first murder was a bit sloppy," Bailey offered.

"Right, the killer's very deliberate, calculating. Hopefully, the nation-wide query will further this case along," Sam sighed.

"Thanks, everyone," Bailey ended the meeting. John sprang up and walked briskly away, while Bailey stayed sitting at the table to see the query sent off immediately. Sam gathered the Tuscaloosa case files, got up and took a few steps before realising that she was off-balance.

Bailey noticed the queerness of her walk, leaned over to take a look at her feet and smiled at the sight. He looked under the table, ducked and had the shoe in his hands before she had time to limp back.

"Missing something?" he grinned at her.

"Just give it," she mumbled and shot him a pointed look.

"The magic word?" he prodded while moving the shoe out of her reach, over the table.

"Now?" she tried to grab the shoe but her attempt was foiled by Bailey turning his chair to evade her hands.

"Okay, please," she relented. He gave a jubilant smile and handed the shoe to her. She placed her left hand on his shoulder for balance while she lifted up her right leg and slipped the shoe on. Then, she left without a word. He watched her go, his small smile taking its time to fade away.

* * *

><p>"Mom? Mom?"<p>

Sam heard her daughter's second mention of her name and lifted her eyes off her journal.

"Can you check these?" Chloe pointed to her calculations on one page of the notebook. Chloe had an arithmetic exam coming up next week, and the mother-daughter pair were doing some extra calculations to prepare. Sam had been reading the spring issue of American Journal of Psychology while Chloe did her calculations. Sam marked the page of the journal she'd been in the middle of reading before inspecting Chloe's answers.

Sam had devised twenty calculations regarding multiplication and division. The girl had answered correctly to 17 exercises. Sam handed the notebook back to her daughter. "Very good, Chlo, there's only three that are wrong. See if you can work them out."

She watched as Chloe puzzled over the remaining calculations. Chloe spent a few minutes correcting her answers. After that, she looked at Sam who'd been observing what she wrote down. Sam gave her an encouraging nod. "So good, sweetie, you got all of them right. Remember, you can always tell if a number can be divided by three by adding the two numbers together to see if the resulting number is dividable by three. So... Can 54 be divided by three?"

Chloe thought about it and nodded. "Good. How about 89?"

Chloe answered with a shake of her head. "Correct. There you go!" The little girl beamed.

"Can I go play with Denzel now?"

"Sure. We'll continue tomorrow night, alright?" Chloe nodded, gathered her math book and notebook and shouted for Denzel.

Sam stayed at the dining table and opened her psychology journal again, managing to read a few more pages before she heard the elevator coming up. She waited to see if Angel was coming home or if they were to have a visitor. It turned out to be a case of the former.

"Hey! Where were you?" Sam had only heard Angel making a hasty exit and yelling out "Going out for an errand!" an hour ago.

"Oh, I had to see Ron about an exhibit he's putting on at the gallery."

Sam checked the time from her watch. "That took an hour? The gallery is ten minutes from here."

"Uh huh," Angel said in an evasive tone and hung her coat in a nook by the elevator. "Did you guys eat already?"

"No, I couldn't be bothered to make the effort. How does Chinese take-out sound?"

"Fine by me."

Sam took a closer look at her friend. Something about Angel's appearance piqued her interest. She thought she could spot the faintest flush still on Angel's cheeks. A flush only a man could inspire, in Sam's experience. Maybe Angel had a thing for Ron?

"You look kinda..."

"What?" Angel's tone was a bit apprehensive.

"Kinda flushed. Like you've had a very good date." Angel looked to the side for a second, confirming Sam's suspicions. She wondered how long Angel had been seeing someone, and more to the point, who he was. "So who's the guy?"

Angel sat down at the table. "It's John. Sorry I didn't tell you sooner," she uttered when she saw Sam's surprise. "We've gone out on like six dates, and I wanted to see if it'd go the distance before telling you."

"I would have guessed the guy to be Ron, but hey, good for you and John. Nothing to be sorry about," Sam laid Angel's twinges of guilt to rest.

Angel, for her part, was tempted to bring up the subject Sam had so casually brushed off last weekend at the cafe. But she decided against it. She didn't have the whole picture yet, and she wanted more to go on apart from hazy suspicions. She'd have to find a chance to observe her best friend with Bailey some more.

* * *

><p>Sam and Bailey entered one of three private interview rooms at the women's penitentiary. The spacious room was bare, with just a table and three chairs, all grey and made from metal. They had entered through one door; their interviewees would enter through the door opposite to them.<p>

Bailey remained standing and looked on as Sam prepared for the interview. He knew from experience that she would focus on the task at hand by being taciturn. She always readied her state of mind for any interview, but for interviews concerning Jack, she'd go into another zone altogether.

Her motions were unhurried, deliberate; she positioned one chair directly opposite the lone chair on the opposite side. She would sit on it. She took out of her bag Jones' rap sheet, a notebook and a pen. She arranged the objects carefully on the tabe. Then, she placed the bag on the floor right next to her chair. Finally, she sat down.

He let her acclimate to the scene in front of her before he joined her at the table. He took off his overcoat, folded it to hang from the back of the chair and sat down. She gave him a little sideways smile.

Before they could say anything, they spied movement through the small window of the door. Their first interviewee, Leslie Jones, appeared through the door with an escorting correctional officer. She was skinny, average height, brown, small eyes, stringy blonde hair and a piercing on her nose.

Sam and Bailey had agreed to play hard ball with Jones. With her ill-tempered personality, she wouldn't react kindly to weak personalities. They needed to keep things formal and strict.

So, they waited in silence for Jones to be seated down and her handcuffs to be linked through the bar on the table.

"Ms Jones, I'm special agent Malone from the FBI. This is my colleague, Doctor Sam Waters."

"So?" Jones shot off in a challenging tone that implied that she wasn't impressed in the least.

"We understand that you've begun corresponding with someone in the recent months," Sam began on the subject.

"Not against the law, as I understand it," she commented with hostility, rocking her chair back on its back legs.

"What can you tell us about your penpal?"

"He's an old guy, likes red clothes and lives in the North Pole," Jones smirked.

"Lying to the FBI is a federal offence. So I suggest that you tell the truth, if you don't want to add years to your sentence," Bailey interjected.

Jones made a face and cursed under her breath.

"So, your penpal?" Sam prodded the convict.

"He's an old guy, like I said."

Sam began to fire off her questions in quick succession. "How old?"

"In his forties."

"What's his name?"

"It's Stephen Lux."

"What does he do?"

"He's on disability. Has been for a year now, apparently. Before that, he was a plumber."

"Where does he live?"

"He lives on the outskirts of Montgomery."

"What do you talk about?"

"How is that any of your business?" Jones gave Sam the stink eye.

"Just answer the question," Bailey ordered brusquely.

Jones blew out a breath. "Fine. He mostly talks about his childhood. His dad did a number on him."

"And what do you tell him?"

"I mostly rag on my cheating ex-girlfiend. He doesn't mind it. I guess he gets off on that."

Sam and Bailey shared a look, confirming their impression with each other.

"That'll be all, Ms Jones. Thank you for your time," Sam concluded the interview.

The correctional officer escorted the angry inmate of out the room.

Left alone, Sam commented to Bailey: "She's too wilful for Jack. He wouldn't waste his time on her."

"I agree. Let's see what Samson tells us."

* * *

><p>For their second inmate interview, they'd chosen a completely different tactic to ingratiate themselves to her. Sam had arranged a notebook and a pen on the table which was otherwise empty. When Samson arrived at the interview room, Sam shot up from her chair, and began to thank Samson effusively. "Ms Samson, I'm Sam Waters. Thank you very much for agreeing to help me with my script," Sam rattled off to Samson, who clearly didn't know what to make of the strange woman's gushings.<p>

Then, Samson's eyes landed on Bailey and she gave him a once-over and a flirty smile. Evidently, she liked what she saw. "Who's the eye candy, then?" The correctional officer walked Samson to the chair, waited until she sat down and then withdrew to the left corner of the room, ready to bounce if her convict got out of line.

"Oh, he follows me everywhere. My publisher hired him. There have been some... close calls at other prisons," Sam elaborated willingly to the convict, sticking to the story they'd fashioned to make Samson as susceptible as possible to their agenda.

Samson looked disinterested in Sam's explanation. "Does he have a name?"

"Bailey Malone," he replied curtly and stiffly, signaling that he was present to do his job, not flirt with anyone.

Samson looked delighted as punch at the information."Bailey," she let the name roll off her tongue.

"Uh, Ms Samson, I'm sure that someone explained to you that I'm doing research for a movie. I understand that you recently started corresponding with someone."

"Yeah, that's right," Samson agreed.

"Okay, excellent. How did this correspondence begin?"

"They wrote to me, I was bored and so I wrote back. Beats staring at the ceiling."

"How many letters have you traded?"

Samson drew reluctantly her eyes off Bailey to ponder the correct reply. "I think five."

Sam wrote down Samson's replies in her notebook. "Would you be willing to tell me the name of your penpal?"

"Sure, why not? His name is Jack."

Bailey sensed Sam tensing up next to him and had to resist the urge to check how she dealt with the news. She took a few beats.

"Just Jack?"

"His last name is Anderson." He could feel her apprehension and indignation coming in waves, and he was having a hard time remaining composed, too. He had to make the effort, since Samson was once again looking at him like a cat about to lick a bowl of cream.

Sam took a little bit longer to calm down, then continued as if nothing had transpired. Her next question and the answer to it would be crucial. "Do you still keep in touch?"

"Yup." Both Sam and Bailey sat up imperceptibly in their chairs. They might have a chance to trip up Jack.

Sam plowed on. "Has Jack told you what he does for a living?"

"He works in construction. He moves around a lot."

"How do you keep in touch?"

"He lets me know how to reach him. He includes the address of his next destination in each letter. "

"What do you converse about? Have you divulged any personal information about one another?"

"Some bits and pieces. Would you like to know what?" Samson directed her question to Bailey who remained silent and stone-faced.

Sam jumped in. "I'd really appreciate it. It'd lend an air of authenticity to my script."

"Well, he told me that he'd recently broken up with someone and was looking for a new relationship."

"I see. Nothing else?"

"You know, not much else. Funny," Samson chuckled to herself, as if somewhat surprised.

"And what you have told him?"

Samson shrugged. "Ah, just the basics, why I'm in prison, some things about my cellmate, everyday life inside prison."

"Actually, could we... I mean, could I borrow some letters, or make copies of them?"

The convict eyed Sam with a clear agenda. "Would it earn me a mention in the credits?"

"For sure," Sam was quick to reassure the young woman.

"I'll only let you make copies, though. Deal?"

"Deal," Sam agreed.

"You want them now?"

"Now would be fantastic." Bailey could hear that Sam was getting impatient with the woman and her attention-seeking ways.

"Okay." Samson looked behind her and waited for the officer to approach before she got up. The officer grabbed Samson's arm strongly, walked to the door and ordered Samson to stare in the opposite direction while she keyed a sequence of numbers on the security pad of the door. They exited the room.

Bailey turned to Sam immediately. She was almost seething. "He used my maiden name, Bailey," Sam ground out quietly, shaking her head slowly.

"He's one special kind of bastard, alright," he murmured.

She released a bitter chuckle. "You got that right."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"You think we'll get something useful from the letters?" Bailey asked finally.

"We'll see. Samson mentioned that he'd moved around a lot, so I guess the addresses will be a dead end."

Before their visit to the prison, they'd agreed to send the letters or the copies to Christine Logan, the handwriting expert they'd collaborated with in the Robin Poole case. Logan already knew of Jack, having identified his handwriting in Poole's journals and having been present at the task force when Jack kidnapped Sam.

Should Logan confirm that the handwriting was Jack's, they'd get a court order for the letters and keep them as evidence. Depending on what Jack's letters contained, they would press Samson for more accurate details on what she'd told him in her letters.

They waited patiently for the inmate to come back with the letters. They'd make copies at the warden's office, then give the letters to one of the correctional officers and leave the prison.

* * *

><p>"Even in writing, he makes my skin crawl," Sam commented.<p>

They were in the car, on their way back to the task force. Bailey was driving while Sam was poring over the letters Jack had sent to Samson.

"Listen to this bit from the second letter: 'You're the beauty in my world, lovely girl. You'll be a lover in my bed and a gun to my head.'"

"Jesus," he remarked with disgust. She took a moment to beat back the tide of revulsion the letter provoked.

"Too bad Samson had already written back to him a week ago."

"It's still worth a shot." Upon learning the last address Jack wanted Samson to use, Bailey had called the Columbia field office in South Carolina to dispatch a pair of agents to the scene. Jack had used a post office in Sandy Springs near the city of Anderson as the address.

Sam and Bailey were hoping against hope that security cameras might have caught him on tape, or that the paper trail Jack had used to pay for the post office box would lead somewhere. It was a long shot, but one worth trying.

"What do you think he might be up to?"

"He's got to be planning Lesher's demise. Why else would he strike up correspondence with an inmate?"

"Then we need to find out what Samson told him."

"Let's question her after we get the warrant. I think she'll be more forthcoming when she hears that she's been writing letters to a serial killer. It's a little more than what she bargained for."

* * *

><p>Bailey found George in his nook, surrounded by heavy-duty computers. "George, you got a minute?"<p>

The agent snapped to when he heard his boss' voice. "Yeah, I was just fixing some search parameters for the Tuscaloosa case."

"As you know, Jack used Sam's maiden name in those letters to Samson. That got me wondering if he might have used any other aliases connected to Sam."

George cottoned onto Bailey's train of thought. "Like Jack Waters?"

"Yes, Waters, Anderson, Lawson, and even Cooper. And use Jack and other similar first names, like Jackson or John."

"You want me to look for suspicious driver's licences?"

"And tax records, hospital patients, parking tickets, traffic violations. Cross reference those with the dates and places of Jack's known crime scenes. Dating all the way back to 1992, when he first started addressing Sam directly."

"You got it. It might take me a long time, though."

"Take all the time you need. Thanks."

* * *

><p>Bailey checked his watch, then grimaced. He'd have to hustle if he wanted to make it to the gym for his boxing workout. First though, he'd go have a word with Sam. Check how she was feeling about Jack's latest stunt.<p>

He'd hardly been in his office all day. He'd spent most of his morning with George in the command center, then discussing cases with Grace and John in the lab. After that, he'd made the trip to the prison with Sam.

He placed one sensitive case file in the safe in his desk, stuffed a few others in his bag, and paused to recollect where he'd left his gym bag that morning. That's right, to the right end of the desk behind him. He reached for the bag, then halted. Something was off. He observed the desk and noticed that Sam's trophy wasn't there anymore. She must have snuck in at one point and taken it somewhere else.

He turned off the lights in his office and headed to Sam's office. The lights were still on in her part of the task force premises. He knocked on the open door to announce his presence. She was packing up herself for the night. She looked up from her task and smiled.

"Hey. Did you reach Logan?"

He nodded. "Yes, I did. She's in Washington D.C. until Sunday. She'll come here Monday."

"Good. Thanks."

"I've asked George to run the alias Jack Anderson through every database we have access to. Jack Waters, Lawson, Cooper. Every variation of Jack, too."

"Good thinking," Sam muttered. It made sense to see if Jack had used another alias connected to her.

"How are you feeling?"

She knew what he meant. "I'm still pretty pissed." She made her point by shoving a book into her bag with unnecessary force.

"Maybe you should come to the gym with me, work out your aggressions with the bag," he suggested, half serious. He didn't think she'd take him up on his offer, so he needed to give her another way to release her tension: humour.

"Pretend that I'm hitting Jack? I gotta say, you've given boxing a whole new appeal to me," she informed him before shooting a curious look at him. He'd once confessed to waking up in the mornings and thinking about the bastard. "Is that what you do?"

"Most of the time," he confessed.

She stopped tidying up for the night and just looked at him for a moment, taking in his words. What a stark reminder of the gloom Jack brought with him. It scared and comforted her. Scared her because it proved that Jack's reach was longer than even he'd probably intended, and with longer reach, her ability to control the damage diminished. Comforted her because it was also proof that she wasn't alone.

As Sam turned off her desk lamp, she realised with a jolt that sometimes, recently, in Bailey's company, she forgot about Jack.

He'd stayed silent as she mused his response and had her unspoken realization. They started to walk to the elevator together. She picked up their conversation again.

"Punch the bag extra hard for me 'cos I'm taking a rain check. I need to get home and help Chloe prep for a math exam next week."

"Are you going to check out the fitness class?"

"I'll start Monday, next week," she promised.

* * *

><p>Early next morning, Bailey held a staff meeting for his agents. The subject of the meeting was the upcoming, bi-annual training weekend for agents whose skill verification would be due before the year's end.<p>

"The training weekend will be in Chicago this year. It's gonna be a two-day event. On Saturday, there'll be various workshops aiming to enhance the skills that'll come up in the verification. Sunday, there'll be a field training exercise that calls upon the skills you've just improved."

"When will it take place?" Grace asked.

"The Georgia Bureau agents will head to the Windy City at the beginning of June. We'll stay at a hotel near the Chicago field office."

"That's some short notice!" Washington piped in.

"Unfortunately there was a mix-up and I only got word on this yesterday. If anyone has plans they would like to keep, come to me and I'll arrange you to go to Chicago with another state's Bureau agents. Any questions? Thank you, all."

* * *

><p>Sam was armed with her camera, moving slithely among Angel's sculptures. Angel had asked her to take a few photos of her past pieces of art for a web site Ron's gallery ran. Now, it was just a matter to finding the pieces and moving them to the table off to the far right corner of the studio. Luckily, the pieces were small and relatively light; not Angel's usual style.<p>

She knelt down to read the tag on one sculpture that vaguely resembled a crossbow. Then, she heard someone opening the door leading to the former fire station garage hall that now served as Angel's studio. They were having visitors.

"Hey!" Her greeting to the Malones rang out sunnily. Bailey and Frances had come for an impromptu visit.

"Hi, Sam. Sorry we're dropping by unannounced," Bailey uttered as Sam approached them.

Frances jumped in. "It's my fault. I wanted to talk to you about something, but is this a bad time?"

"No, not at all," she waved off their concerns. "Is it okay if I carry on taking photos? I don't want to lose the sunlight."

"Go right ahead," Frances reassured Sam.

Bailey gestured toward the elevator. "I'm gonna go say hi to Chloe and Angel. Is it okay if I make coffee?"

"Only if you bring me a cup." A smile danced on Sam's features.

"Coming right up, ma'am," Bailey quipped and made a beeline to the elevator.

Then she noticed a bag in his hand. "What's in the bag?" she shouted after him.

"Now that would be telling," he replied mysteriously.

Frances observed Sam gazing warmly after her dad. Then, the woman remembered her task at hand and scooted down to pick up a curious-looking work of art.

"Can I help you somehow?" Frances asked.

"You could grab the camera that's on the floor. Thanks."

"So, what did you want to talk to me about?" Sam carried the object to a small, white table to stood in front of a white wallpaper.

Frances picked up the camera and followed in Sam's footsteps. "It's about college. Well, what to study, to be exact."

"Uh huh," Sam encouraged Frances to go on and took to arranging the work of art on the table.

"Maybe dad's already told you that I'm thinking of having psychology as a minor," Frances' tone implied a question.

"He's mentioned it."

"What was it like? Studying psychology, I mean?"

Satisfied with the placement of the object on the table, Sam turned to Frances for the camera. "Honestly, at the beginning it was all quite dull. But then, you got to the exciting stuff."

Frances relinquished the heavy camera to Sam. "Like?"

"Like... As trite as this may sound, you get insight into the human mind. Why people do anything, behave in a certain way, what drives them."

Frances nodded to signal that she understood.

"You gain this understanding, this awareness. Not just into others, but into yourself, too." Sam explained while looking at Angel's art piece through the viewer. Frances considered Sam's words in silence. Sam started snapping photos.

"I wasn't too abstract, was I?"

"Hm? No, I got it. Thanks."

"But you know, you don't need to know these things right now. You still have plenty of time to make a decision about your major and minor."

"I guess," Frances replied in a wary tone.

The hesitation in the young woman's voice made Sam wonder if Frances was troubled somehow. Maybe about her studies? Or what might happen once she struck out on her own, as an adult? She would have to bring it up with Bailey.

"Alright, I think I'm done with this one. One down, three to go."

* * *

><p>Chloe, wearing a white t-shirt and tights and a pink tutu, abandoned her ballet exercises to run up to the elevator door and let someone in. She was thrilled with the visitor.<p>

"Uncle Bailey!"

"Hey, pumpkin!" He scooped her up for a hug. "What's this you're wearing? It's pink," he teased her as he closed the elevator door.

She looked at him as if he'd asked a very funny question. "It's my tutu. I'm practicing my part in Snow White."

Bailey connected the dots himself. "Ah, for your ballet class?"

"Yeah! I'm Sleepy, one of the dwarfs," the little girl added.

The girl's excitement was infectious. "Sleepy? Sounds very exciting."

"You wanna watch me practice? Please!"

"Of course. Let me make some coffee first, and then I'm all yours," he uttered and set about putting her down, but she resisted by hanging on. He relented, and his deep, put-upon sigh made her giggle. He walked to the kitchen, carrying the girl, and juggled to put the coffee on with only one hand, to Chloe's great delight.

Then, he carried her into the play pen which had enough room for practicing. This time, she eased onto steady ground willingly and waited for him to sit down before she began practicing her solo.

She danced for a good two minutes, non-stop. It was obvious to him that she'd been practicing hard. She looked absolutely precious, concentrating on her performance so hard.

Angel walked out of her room and spied movement in the play pen. She proceeded quietly so as to not disrupt Chloe's practicing. She remained out of view to the little girl, but she noticed Bailey observing Chloe's solo. She hadn't heard him come in.

She should be on the lookout for an opportunity to observe the man with her best friend. See what was what, so to speak.

Chloe finished her dancing and curtseyed to her one-man audience. Bailey clapped enthuasiastically, and Angel joined his applause, drawing attention to herself. "You're getting better and better, Chlo," she praised the girl and offered a small wave to Bailey, who in turn nodded his head once.

Chloe preened herself on Angel's words. "What did you think, Uncle Bailey?"

"I thought you were absolutely wonderful," he remarked truthfully.

"Thanks! The recital is next week, will you come?"

"Well, I'd love to come, but who else is coming? Is there a head count for each dancer?" Bailey looked to Angel.

"They usually allow four people to come along, but Helen and Charles aren't coming this time. There's room for you," Angel informed him.

"So do you promise?" Chloe repeated her question.

"I will do my very best to come," he hedged, mindful of the curve balls his job sometimes threw into fixed plans. He guessed that Chloe had heard the same response a few times before from Sam, for she looked a bit disheartened and just nodded silently.

Angel jumped in to rally the girl's spirits. "How about you dance for me, too, missy? I didn't see the beginning." Chloe agreed and moved to the center of the play pen to begin her performance. Bailey relinquished his chair to Angel and strode into the kitchen for the coffee.

Whilst being Chloe's audience, Angel made some surreptitious observations about Bailey. First, he'd put coffee on for a small army. Second, he rummaged through the cupboards, in search of a plate, a drinking glass and cups. He placed them all on the round table and then produced a cardboard box of... freshly baked croissants.

She did find it curious that he should feel so at home at their place. Not that she minded it. Lord knows she hadn't always like the man, but he'd started to grow on her. She wondered if Sam took similar liberties at his place.

Chloe finished her dance and Angel applauded for the second time. "You've gotten so good!"

The girl beamed again, then got wind of Bailey's activities and rushed to the kitchen. "Ooh, croissants!" she said, pronouncing the word as an amalgam of 'cross' and 'saints'.

"Yes, I bought all of us some croissants," Bailey replied, using the correct pronunciation.

"You bought us what?" Bailey repeated the word, but it was lost on Chloe's eight-year-old mind, evidenced by her unsure stare at him. "You can practice the word with your mom."

"Why's that?"

"Because it's a French word and she knows French," Angel explained.

"Okay. Can I have one?"

"Of course."

They sat around the kitchen table and ate their treat. Bailey and Angel had coffee, whereas Chloe enjoyed her French delicatesse with raspberry juice. Just as they had finished their snack, Frances came into the living area from the elevator.

"Uh, dad? Sam needs your help carrying this high piece," Frances remarked, waving her hand high up in the air.

Angel took a beat. "Oh yeah, the Cherry tree one is heavy. Tell Sam I'm sorry, I forgot about it. Hello," she greeted Frances, whom she hadn't yet met.

"Angel, this is my daughter Frannie. Sweetheart, this is Angel, Sam's oldest friend."

Frances greeted the artist somewhat shyly. "Hi. Hi Chloe," she said in a much more confident tone. Then she looked at her dad as if to remind him of her words.

"I'm on my way," he reassured her. He quickly poured some coffee into a cup and grabbed a tissue on which to put Sam's croissant. Then he headed for the elevator, leaving the three females to discuss Chloe's upcoming ballet recital.

* * *

><p>Sam stood beside the tall tree-like sculpture, awaiting Bailey's arrival. The Cherry tree was the last piece Angel wanted photographed; she and Frances had managed to carry the others on their own. She would develop the photos in their very own darkroom. It would be the first time she used the room, in fact. Chloe had already secured a renewed promise from her about showing the process of developing the photos.<p>

She heard Bailey opening the elevator door and looked up from her musings. She shot him a grateful smile when she saw that he'd made good on his promise to bring her coffee. And a croissant. She was beginning to feel the incipient rumblings of hunger in her innards, to be frank.

"That's the one?" Bailey made a small indicating motion toward the piece, mindful of the goods he was carrying.

"Yup. Thank you," she said as he offered the java and the delicacy to her. "Bring it where I'm going." She walked over to the table on which she'd positioned the other pieces and sat on it to consume her snack. She watched Bailey considering a while where to grab the sculpture, then picking it up with relative ease and bringing it to her.

"Thanks again," she remarked when he'd securely set the piece on the floor. She broke off a piece of her croissant and munched on it.

"My pleasure." He leaned against the table and surveyed the open space of the former garage. It was littered with odd-looking sculptures. "What are the photos for?"

She hastily swallowed her sip of coffee. "They're for the website of Ron's gallery. A few choice pieces from past exhibitions, so to speak." They were silent for a beat. Then she got to wondering what he'd been doing upstairs all this time. "What did you get up to just now?"

"Well, I made coffee, then Chloe danced her Sleepy solo for me, we ate and that's it." She'd smiled when he'd mentioned Chloe.

"She invited me to the recital," his tone of voice contained a unsure sound, as if asking whether or not he was welcome.

"I'm sure she'd love it if you came along. So, the only question is, how many tutus and pliés can you stomach?" she asked in a jesting manner.

He picked up her light tone. "I would think quite a few. Frannie or Ari didn't dance ballet when they were little. They were more interested in girl scouts and piano lessons."

She finished her pastry and sipped her coffee. Bail mentioning Frances reminded her of the young woman's wary response twenty minutes ago. She hadn't pursued it further, but she felt compelled to bring it up with Bailey. Better to err of the side of caution.

"How much have you and Frances discussed college?"

"I don't know. The usual amount, I guess. Why?"

"She sounded a bit unsure when we talked."

Bailey pondered Sam's words. "Like she doesn't want to go to college?"

Sam shook her head quickly. "No, it was more like she was scared of going without a set plan in place."

"You think she might be afraid of picking up some bad habits again?"

"Maybe. You should probably talk to her."

"I will."

She sipped the last drops of her coffee and set to work. "Let's wrap this up."

Together, they positioned the sculpture in front of the white paper sheet. The sun was still shining in through the windows high up on the walls. Sam looked at the work of art through the viewer of her camera and remembered a stanza of poem by e. e. cummings. She'd read the book a few times already, impressed by the man's use of form and simple words to convey themes of childhood's infectuous joy and love's miracles.

"We're anything brighter than even the sun," she muttered the stanza aloud.

"Excuse me?" Bailey shot her an inquisitive look.

"Nothing, a stanza from cummings' poem came to mind. I've read the collection now twice."

"Have you enjoyed his poems?"

"Are you kidding? I love them. In particular the one I quoted. I think it ends..." her voice drifted off.

He waited for a while to see if she'd come up with the last stanza, then recited it himself. "We're wonderful one times one." To his surprise, she snapped a photo of him just then.

"Yeah," she grinned at him.

* * *

><p>Elliot Wykoff stared into the gloom of the Sunday night. He was sitting by his window, which had a view onto the activities yard of the Institute. Even early on, he'd refused to touch any of the exercise machines stationed throughout the yard.<p>

Doctor Campbell, the first physician to take point in his recuperation, hadn't believed in his abilities and had forced him to handle a common baseball. The result had been a relapse into catatonia, albeit mercifully a brief one. After that, Campbell had washed his hands off Elliot's case, allowing Cynthia Simons to come on board. His progress had been remarkably speedy under Simons' care.

Progress that was first overshadowed by his grief over Diane's fate, and then this curveball had come along. He'd received the news two weeks ago. He'd been grappling with it since, wondering what to do with his borrowed time.

He now knew what he wanted to do with the time that remained. He'd only had one visitor the entire time he'd been in the Sander Institute. Just one of the many consequences of his reclusive life. He wasn't sure he would call her a friend, but she seemed like a kindred spirit.

A kindred spirit whose life might still be troubled by that fiend. So, Elliot had decided that he would do everything in his power to help her rid her life of the maniac. He would ask doctor Simons to contact her again tomorrow.


	10. A Sky That Is Changing

(Thanks to demonchilde!)

**A SKY THAT IS CHANGING **

Sam chewed on her lip as she tried to compare the handwriting in Robin Poole's chemistry journal and in the letters Samson had received. Forensic handwriting wasn't even something she'd trained in, but in her anxious state she was willing to pass the time any way she could before Logan's arrival. And besides, the objects were right there in front of her, in Bailey's office, where they were awaiting the dark-haired expert. She was sitting, or rather fidgeting, on the sofa, whilst he sat at his desk.

The intercom on Bailey's desk buzzed. "Agent Malone, is Doctor Waters present? I have a caller, a Doctor Simons, on the line," the voice belonging to the switchboard operator intoned. Sam and Bailey looked at one another.

"That's Wykoff's psychotherapist. Do you mind?" Bailey shook his head and Sam walked over to the phone.

"Put her through. This is Doctor Samantha Waters." Bailey listened to Sam's intermittent replies to the psychotherapist. "I see. I'd be happy to come see him tomorrow. Can you ask him if it's okay for me to bring along a good friend of mine?" Sam looked at him while waiting for the question and reply to be carried out in the premises of the Institute. "No, that's okay. I'll come by tomorrow at four." Bailey nodded his acquiescence to Sam's implied question. "Until tomorrow, then. Bye." She hung up the phone, pausing to consider the conversation.

"Wykoff wants to see me again," Sam said hesitantly, the memory of their last discussion on the psychic playing in her mind.

"Did Simons say why?"

"No, she said he'd tell me in person," she angled for a light tone.

"And Wykoff didn't want anyone else to come along?" he asked in a flat voice.

"Hardly surprising for someone who's a recluse," she reasoned on Wykoff's behalf.

"I guess."

"Don't tell me you disapprove?" Sam looked at him with an incredulous expression.

"I don't, but..." his reply was cut short by the knock on his office door. Christine Logan stepped in through the open door. "I hope I'm not interrupting?"

Bailey shot up from his chair. Sam and Bailey both approached the former Secret Service agent. "Agent Waters, Agent Malone. Good to see both of you." The Bureau agents shook hands with the brunette.

"Shall we sit down?" The profiler and the task force boss sat side by side on the sofa and Logan seated herself on the beige arm chair.

"Thank you for coming. As I already told you on the phone, we need your expertise in forensic handwriting. We'd like you to discern whether the forged handwriting on the last page of Poole's journal is a match to the one in these letters." Bailey pointed to the journal and the letters, everyone of them in individual evidence bags.

Logan nodded her head and didn't voice any questions. She knew that this assignment operated on a need-to-know basis. "I'll do my very best. Where will I work? I need peace and quiet."

"You can use Agents Waters' office. Should you need any forensic equipment, our lab is at your disposal."

"Then, let's get to it," the brunette remarked and took possession of the letters and the journal. Sam escorted the woman to her office.

* * *

><p>Logan emerged from Sam's office over two hours later to announce to Bailey and Sam that she was ready. She took them to the office and revealed her findings. She didn't look pleased.<p>

"I have to conclude this a non-match, mainly owing to a lack of comparable documents. As it stands, the journal yields insufficient data for proper analysis. There's simply too little of it, and the fact that the text is forged makes it more difficult to compare. In addition, the letters themselves being copies complicates matters further."

Sam almost groaned out of disappointment, and Bailey echoed her sentiment silently. She shot a questioning look at him, and he nodded. They would have to produce the letters Jack had written to Sam for comparison.

"If you give us a half an hour, we'll give you seven letters that we believe to have been written by the same unsub as the letters you already inspected," Bailey informed her.

"For this examination, I'll need to know the sex and age of the supposed writer," Logan requested.

The agents hesitated to give up the information, so Logan pressed on: "It's vital for me to know them in order to do a comprehensive analysis."

Bailey let out a small sigh. "The writer is male and is believed to be between 34 and 48 years old."

"Thank you," Logan acknowledged the bending of regulations. Bailey got on the phone and asked the evidence room agent to retrieve Jack's letters.

* * *

><p>Bailey and Sam were once again in his office when Logan buzzed them, bidding them to come confer on the results.<p>

The expert started the proceedings with a question. "How long a time has passed in between the writing of these letters?"

"Approximately six years," Sam informed the brunette.

"Am I correct in assuming that these letters are the earlier ones?" Logan pointed to the notes Jack had written to Sam. Bailey nodded wordlessly.

"And is the recipient of the letters the same person?"

Bailey knew that some letters that Jack had sent to Sam over the years didn't specify her as the recipient. He wondered why the forensic handwriting expert would ask such a question.

"No. Why do you ask?"

Logan took in Bailey's response before answering. "Those facts fill in some of the blanks I had. Taking into account the natural development anyone's handwriting will exhibit in a span of six years and the differing recipients, my conclusion is that they were written by the same person."

"Will it get us a court order to seize the later set of letters?" Bailey got straight down to the point.

"I believe it will. Would you like to hear what I discovered beyond the match?" Logan asked, sounding a bit affronted by the agents' apparent disinterest in her other findings.

Sam jumped in to appease the woman who'd helped them tremendously. "Please tell us."

Logan nodded curtly. "We're dealing with someone who is capable of violence against others. He's both impatient and intelligent."

Logan glanced at her notes. "In the earlier letters, the speed of writing was slow, suggesting a personal bond to the recipient. He planned every detail in them, he possibly even fantasized about them and went over what to write over and over again. The later letters were written quickly, indicating a personal detachment to the recipient. He was being impatient, eager to get the job done."

The expert carried on. "He presses the pen when he writes, which exemplifies both emotional reservedness and aggression. He's incapable of expressing emotions."

She got down to the most damning piece of analysis. "The way the writing tilts to the left indicates that he is egotistical and greedy. It also suggests that he has a dependency relationship to his past, like his parents or his childhood home. In addition, in some cases, the tilt is indicative of a trauma experienced in childhood. He's pathologically self-absorbed, and he also has a pathological need to impress others," she remarked with a meaningful gaze.

"I will put all of this and more in a sworn statement which you can present to a judge," Logan finished and took in the stunned expressions of the Bureau agents with benevolent amusement. She was used to that reaction.

* * *

><p>Sam slunk into the spacious training room where the women's class met, hoping to get her bearings before the class began. She looked around, but didn't notice anyone familiar in the groups of women chatting in small circles. She wondered if she was dressed inappropriately. She was wearing her old sneakers, black slacks and a baggy, purple exercise shirt. For the most part, the other women were decked out in what Sam surmised to be the latest fashions.<p>

She fidgeted a little and looked around, trying to pinpoint the identity of the instructor. A fit brunette who looked to be in her late twenties noticed and accosted her.

"Hi, I'm Olivia, the instructor of the class. I don't think I've seen you here before," the woman offered her hand.

Sam shook Olivia's hand. "Yeah, this is my first time. I'm Sam, from the Violent Crimes Task Force," she explained, not sure how much information to divulge.

If Sam shared too much, Olivia didn't let it show, keeping a pleasant front. "Well, welcome to the class. Today, we'll be going over some defensive tactics. We rotate the subjects for the classes a bit. Sometimes, we do self-defense or yoga, other times circuit training, you name it. Keeps things interesting. If you have any requests, just let me know."

"Okay, sounds good," Sam uttered, not really knowing how to respond.

Olivia clapped her hands. "Great! Let's get started," she bounced to the front of the room, leaving Sam alone in the back. She briefly wondered whether she might regret her decision to take part in the class before Olivia ordered them to run ten laps for warm-up. The women didn't need to be told twice, and so Sam started running along them.

* * *

><p>Sam, Bailey, John, two correctional officers and the warden walked on the aisle leading up to Samson's cell. They'd presented the court order for the inmate's correspondence to the warden, who'd offered double quick to take them to the prisoner himself. Bailey and John were getting their fair share of raucous catcalls from the inmates cooped up in their cells.<p>

The agents waited while the correctional officers ordered Samson outside for the duration of the search. The prisoner complied and stepped outside without causing a scene, only to puzzle about the presence of the people who'd interviewed her last week.

"Hey, what's this?" she asked from no one in particular. As John and the other c. o. entered the cell and started their search, Bailey informed Samson of the purpose of the search. "We're with the FBI. I'm special agent in charge, Bailey Malone. This is a court order for the letters you have received from a Jack Anderson."

"What the hell?" Samson didn't know about what she felt more stunned: the deception perpetrated on her or the invasion of her privacy.

"You've been corresponding with a man wanted by the FBI." Bailey wouldn't go into more detail out in the open.

John found the letters quickly underneath a stack of gossip magazines. "Found them!" He put each of them in a separate evidence bag and walked out of the cell. "Five, in total," he remarked as he handed them over to Sam, who inspected the evidence bags.

"Did you receive any other letters from Jack?" Samson clammed up, forcing Bailey to inform the woman: "Lying to the FBI is a federal offence. I'll ask again: did you receive any other letters from this Jack?"

Samson made a pissy face. "No, I did not."

Bailey nodded to the correctional officers. "Bring her into the interrogation room one, please."

Once in the interrogation room, the agents got down to business right away. "In Jack's second letter, he fishes for some details about the daily life of the prison. I quote: 'What do you do all day, under the heavy gaze of the guards? Do you ever get a moment's peace?' What did you respond to that?" Sam pressed Samson.

"Come on, I can't remember things like that! It was two months ago."

"I suggest you try," Sam ordered curtly and Samson clenched her jaw, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

"I think I said that solitary was the only place where anybody could get some privacy, but that I'd never been there."

Sam presented the next letter. "Which is why in the third letter, Jack suggested that you try get into solitary. We know that you haven't been in solitary detention. What did you respond to him?"

Samson made an exasperated sound. "Look, I don't get why you're making such a big fuss about this. He's just some guy!"

"He's a guy who's killed over twenty people. So how about you just co-operate with us?" Bailey pinned the woman with a hard look.

"You're not kidding, are you? Jesus." Samson looked appropriately horrified. "Okay, I said that while he seemed like a nice man," she reflected on her words with a shudder, "I wasn't about to take a hit like solitary on my record. Solitary always means more time to serve."

"In the fourth, he obliquely attemps to ferret some information about the guards, what kind of shifts they have and so on. Did you tell him anything?"

"I might have said that nights have less guards, but that's it. That's pretty much public knowledge, isn't it? I mean, I didn't begin to write down the shift schedules for him or anything."

"In the fifth and final letter, he wonders how drugs or cigarettes make their way inside. Were you able to supply that information to him?"

"No, I've stayed clear of that business. I kicked the habit waiting for my trial and I haven't touched that stuff since. I go to meetings and everything. That's what I told him."

The agents continued the interrogation for another ten minutes. Finally satisfied that the inmate wasn't withholding any vital information, they let her go.

"Looks like we lucked out," Bailey commented.

"Yeah. She may be impressionable, but she's too ditzy to tell Jack what he wanted," Sam agreed.

"Any word on the post office box in Sandy Springs?" John enquired.

"No one has collected the letter yet. The box was rented out with cash for a month, and he presented an id with the alias Jack Anderson. The permanent address he gave on the form doesn't exist."

"Damn it," Sam bit out.

"I'll ask the Columbia field office stake out the place until the lease expires. Then, we'll confiscate the letter as evidence," Bailey concluded.

* * *

><p>Sam surveyed surreptitiously the room Wykoff had led her to. He had a small room all to his own, a luxury in such circumstances. There was a bed in the middle of the room, a built-in closet to the left of the bed and a window to the right of it. In front of the window were two wooden chairs and a rectangular table. A picture of Diane, the late Mrs. Wykoff, adorned a low bedside table.<p>

The profiler and the patient seated themselves at the table. Sunlight streamed in, and there were people enjoying the warm weather out in the yard.

Sam folded her jacket and put it on her lap. "How have you been?"

The man attempted a smile and clasped his hands. He gazed out into the yard for a moment. "I haven't come to terms with Diane's death, if that is what you mean."

Sam gave him a compassionate look. "I know what it's like."

Elliot rested his eyes on the photo of his late wife. "Do you have children?"

"Yes, I have a daughter. Her name is Chloe."

"Chloe," Elliot repeated the name with a smile. "Associated with the goddess Demeter. That's a good name." The man fell silent for a beat.

Then, he continued. "I'm sorry. I asked you here for a reason. Two weeks ago, I learned that I have congestive heart failure."

Sam's gut dropped. "Is is treatable?"

"My physician thinks so, but... I'm considering accepting only palliative treatment. I have very little to live for."

Sam's heart ached for the man. "I'm very sorry. But, I wish you would reconsider."

He just shook his head. "My time will probably run out in a year. I've thought about it, and I know what I want to do with the time that remains. I'd like to help you. Help you catch Jack."

Sam stood up and paced around the room for a while. Then, she faced him. "No. I can't ask that of you," she replied, mindful of the toll such an undertaking would take on the frail man.

"You caught the man who killed my beloved. I want to repay that service. I hope that you will consider it."

Sam looked out through the window, the sunlight now illuminating a whole different world.

* * *

><p>Wykoff's news weighed Sam down the rest of the day. She had resolutely denied his offer of help in catching Jack.<p>

Sadness for the man's inevitable fate was at the forefront of her thoughts even while showing Chloe the ropes of developing photos in their own darkroom. She tried to shield Chloe from her distress, and was able to keep up a normal front.

The girl was hanging the last developed photo onto the rope with a peg. Sam hadn't let Chloe handle the different chemical solutions; the eight-year-old had only observed the process. Even so, she seemed to have taken a liking to the whole thing. She was practically itching to take some photos to Angel, even though they hadn't dried yet.

"Angel will see them later on, sweetie. You have that math exam tomorrow, right? You want me to prep you?"

"Angel said she'd help me."

"Well then, you go ahead and tease that brain of yours. I'll clear away all this stuff and then I'll make all of us a snack, okay?"

"Okay! Is it safe to open the door?"

"Yes, all the photos have been in the water bath for the third time, remember?"

"Okay. Angel!" Chloe bellowed as soon as she opened the door. "You promised to prep me! Hi, Uncle Bailey!" Sam heard her daughter's greeting through the door that had snapped shut. "My mom just showed me how to develop photos. It was super cool," Chloe said, sounding this time more distant.

Sam grabbed the trays or developer and stop bath on the counter. She would combine the two in a glass bottle, then pour it down the sink. She heard a knock on the door. "Sam?"

"The door's open, Bail," she knelt down to retrieve the glass bottle. "Switch the light on, would you?" she asked of him as he entered the darkroom. He flicked the switch on his right. "Hey," he greeted her.

"Hey, yourself." She rummaged for a glass funnel in a white cupboard mounted on the wall, which was used to restore the developing chemicals. "What's up?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to hear what Wykoff had to say." Sam's expression darkened, but not for the reason Bailey suspected. She positioned the funnel on the bottle, put a pair of protective gloves on, then rested her hands on the counter, putting her weight onto her them and looked him squarely in the eyes.

"He's dying of congestive heart failure. He wants to help us get Jack," she said wearily.

His eyes widened from the shock, he looked to the side and breathed a heavy sigh. It was apparent that the news had hit her hard. His left hand found its way to Sam's shoulders. "That's horrible. I'm so sorry."

She bit her lip and squared her jaw, getting back to the task at hand. "Yeah," she mumbled in a choked up voice before clearing her throat. She lifted the tray containing the developer and poured its contents into the bottle. She then poured the stop bath liquid into the developer. She laid the tray back on the counter, took off her gloves with force and drew a shaky breath, her emotions getting the better of her. She covered her eyes with her right hand and fought back the tears.

Bailey had watched her struggling to remain composed. He wasn't surpised that the psychic's news was affecting Sam in this way. She'd met the man when she'd been as close to a burnout as he'd ever seen her, and he knew she'd felt some kind of kinship with Wykoff. She'd even been afraid that she'd share his fate of falling into the abyss. He'd tried to help her in fending off that fear, but now it was looming again.

He stepped closer and shifted his hand down around her waist, pulling her to his embrace. She let her hands dangle straight, just focusing on keeping her feelings in check. When the worst had passed, she wound her hands around his middle and squeezed as a sign of thanking him. "Thank you," she sniffed and disengaged from him, wiping away any remaining moisture from her eyes.

She put the gloves back on and poured the developer and stop bath mixture down the sink, running water after the mixture.

"How did you leave things with him?"

"I said no. How could I ask him to spend the last months of his life reliving unspeakable cruelty?" She sighed and decided to make a full confession. "But I considered it." It was true. As she'd paced the room, for the briefest moment she had wondered how much he could help the task force, if they could truly put an end to Jack's reign of terror with his insights. There were times when she'd do anything to be free.

"What does that say about me?" she asked with a sad smile and reached for the fixer tray. He halted her motion, wanting to drive his point home clear as a whistle.

"That you're human and you've been looking over your shoulder far too long."

She nodded silently. She raised the fixer tray closer to her before scooting down to bring out a canister from the cupboard under the sink. She poured the contents of the tray into the canister.

"What do you think?"

He took a beat, hesitating how to answer her question. She continued: "If he could prove to you that he's really psychic, like he did with me?"

"For me, that's still a big if," he replied and hastened to add: "Even if I were convinced of his abilities, there are a few other considerations. Like the possibility of causing him another relapse. And whether or not we'd be able to use the evidence we uncovered with his help in a court of law."

She mused his words in silence as she worked. She had to admit that he had salient points. And she herself hadn't made up her mind about the offer. She disposed of the toner liquid by pouring it into the big canister. She screwed the lidon tightly, then placed it back in the cupboard and locked the door. She rinsed the glass bottle and funnel in the sink, then put them in the cupboard on the wall.

"I'm gonna fix us something to eat. Will you join us?"

"I would love to, but Frannie is expecting me home soon."

Bailey bid a good night to Angel and Chloe before heading to the elevator. Sam and Bailey said good night in hushed voices, kissing each other on the cheek. Angel looked on the unfolding scene covertly from the dining table.

* * *

><p>Sam had a few minutes to spare before her class was about to start, and she decided to call home quickly to hear about Chloe and Angel's day.<p>

"Hello?" Angel picked up.

"Hi Angel, it's me. How's it going?"

"Just fine. Why are you calling now? Did you already skip out on the exercise class?"

Sam rolled her eyes even though Angel was miles away. "No, I'm here at the gym, but the class doesn't start for a few minutes. Is Chloe nearby?"

"Yeah, she's training Denzel again. I'll give the phone to her. Bye!"

"Bye, Angel." Some ten seconds passed before she heard Chloe's voice.

"Hi, Mom."

"Hey, you. I just wanted to call real quick and ask how the math exam went."

"Fine, I guess. The last two questions were really hard, but I think I got them right."

"That's great, honey. Did you already finish your home work?"

"We didn't get much. I was just training the off command with Denzel again."

"Okay, you keep at it. I'll see you in an hour and a half, alright?"

"Alright, bye now."

"Bye." Sam locked her locker and sprinted to the exercise room. That evening's agenda was circuit training. They would do shuttle runs, squat thrusts, sit-ups, ski jumps, press-ups and back extension chest raises for a total duration of 45 minutes, with gracious one-minute rests between the stations. The last ten minutes would be spent relaxing and stretching.

'Sam was exhausted at the end of the session. She wondered how long it might be before her fitness level would hold up. What she'd neglected to consider was that such a strenuous workout could and would impact her the next day. A lesson she would come to learn truly well.


	11. Feel This Something Rising in My Veins

(Thanks to demonchilde again!)**  
><strong>

**FEEL THIS SOMETHING RISING IN MY VEINS**

Sam woke up to a world of pain the following morning. She awoke to the buzzing of her alarm clock from deep sleep, her mind still hazy from the beckoning dream land. She groaned and turned from sleeping with her back to the shrill alarm clock onto her side. That's when she first felt it. A pain that almost seared through both her thighs at the slightest movement of her feet. Without thinking, her right hand flew to her thighs, but even the lightest touch was painful. The alarm was still blaring. She moved her feet and cursed under her breath. Her muscles were sore beyond recognition. She'd really overdone it last night, and the stretching hadn't helped.

Careful of putting strain on her feet, she put her weight onto her hands and reached slowly for the clock. Then, it was quiet again. She threw the covers off her to look at her feet, fearing that they might have needles poking out of them. She blinked and took a hard look, but her thighs seemed normal enough. She tried to raise her knees and bring in her feet, but the effort approached sheer agony.

She heard Angel's foot steps in the hall and called out to her quietly. Her best friend appeared at the doorway. "Hey, good morning," Angel greeted.

"I need your help," Sam began.

"Sure, with what?" Angel looked on as Sam's face twisted with agony when she tried to swing her feet onto the side of the bed.

"I overdid the circuit training last night. My muscles are incredibly sore," she confessed.

Angel approached the bed. "How sore are we talking about?"

"So sore that I'm about to topple over and spend the day in a curled position and just whimper to myself," Sam bit out as she tried to make her way to the side of the bed. "You're the fitness expert in this house, don't you have any tips or tricks to ease this?"

"Well, since I'm guessing that stretching isn't an option, I can only recommend painkillers. You want me to go get some?"

Sam nodded wordlessly and Angel disappeared out of the room and headed into the bathroom, where the medicine cabinet was. Sam occupied herself with inching her feet ever closer to the left side of the bed. Angel returned with a glass of water and a painkiller, which Sam downed instantly.

"Can you stand up?"

"Let me try," Sam responded glumly, preparing herself for the worst. She tried putting her weight onto her feet, but her muscles protested vehemently. "No, I can't." Angel had a worried look on her face. She offered her hands to Sam. "On three. One, two, three." Sam pulled herself up with Angel's help. "How's that?"

Sam was taking deep breaths. "Kind of bad, still. Let me try moving around." She took a few short steps and stopped quickly. "Ouch," she grunted out.

"That bad, huh?" Sam nodded silently. "Maybe you should take a personal day," Angel suggested.

Sam looked offended at the thought. "I'm not taking a personal day because of sore muscles! I have my pride," she reasoned. "And, it's crunch time for a court case the task force investigated. I can't skip it. Besides, it's bound to get better as the day progresses, right?" she asked with a hopeful tone.

Angel shrugged her shoulders. "I would think so," she chose comfort instead of a cold, hard truth. "When you're in the shower, run warm water over your muscles. Maybe the warmth will relax the muscles a little." Sam nodded again and started heading to the bathroom, trudging all the way there.

* * *

><p>Alone in the elevator, Sam braced herself for entering the busy bustle of the task force. The walk from the car park and inside the building's main lobby had almost been taxing enough. She fished a file out of her bag. She could pretend that her slow walk was because of being engrossed in some forensic details. The elevator dinged its arrival to the -7 floor of the VCTF. She took a deep breath and stepped out of the elevator.<p>

She was good for ten feet, then Washington bumped into her and the case file fell to the floor. He apologised profusely and bent down to retrieve the fallen papers, but not before she'd bent her feet a little and almost blacked out. Washington didn't notice her struggle and handed her the case file quite happily. She smiled her thanks, and after Washington had gone on his merry way, she made a slow beeline for the closest safe space. Bailey's office.

Bailey was stowing a case file into a cabinet directly opposite the door. He turned around to see Sam closing the door and leaning against it, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. He was immediately concerned. "Sam? What's wrong?"

She gave him an utterly miserable look. "I overdid it last night. My feet are killing me. The only reason I haven't collapsed to the floor already is that I'd have to put my weight on my thighs, and believe me, that isn't an option right now," she ground out.

He walked to her. "Have you tried stretching?"

"It hurts when I touch my thighs even lightly. If anyone stretches or touches them, I'm liable to do something that'll land me ten years in a max security facility of the government kind," she grunted.

He took in her explanation. "Okay... Let me call Grace. Maybe she knows a way to relieve the soreness. Are you okay where you are?"

She nodded. "I am, provided that no one busts in."

Sam concentrated on enjoying the painless sensation of standing still while Bail made the call.

Grace wasted no time in arriving to Bailey's office. Sam had taken a few steps away from the doorway, grimacing at each movement.

"Hey, Sam. So, what's the emergency?" Bailey hadn't clued her in on all the particulars.

"My thigh muscles are sore as all-get-out. Please tell me you have a magical remedy for that."

Grace looked discomfited. "Well, the soreness is believed to be caused by microtears of the muscle fibers. Massage, warmth, stretching might work." At Sam's shaking of her head, the former doctor continued. "There's always painkillers and some creams that could work."

"I already took a painkiller. Hasn't worked yet."

"Let's try the cream, then. Other than those, the only way to heal is to do some very light exercise. It'll bring oxygen to the muscle and increase blood flow. That'll help lessen the swelling of the muscle."

"Okay," Sam sighed.

The profiler and the medical examiner headed to the lab. He watched Sam walk slowly and with effort alongside Grace. He felt for his friend, but he had to concede that a little part of him was slightly amused.

* * *

><p>Over the course of the day, Sam learned a few things that she'd be sure to pass onto Chloe as life lessons. One: avoid overly strenuous exercise. Two: always stretch after exercise. Three: descending stairs with sore thigh muscles was liable to get you cussing inward, without fail.<p>

The third lesson had taken her by surprise. Prior to this hellish day, she would have bet anything that going up stairs would be more painful. But no, that wasn't the case. A fact she noticed when she descended the few stairs separating the bull pen where John and Marcus' tables were laid out. Her knees almost gave out, having to pick up the slack for her feeble muscles. As it happened, she was able to grab the railing to steady herself before making her way to Marcus and John.

What she didn't know that her two fellow agents had noticed a thing or two about her that day: the slow pace of her walking, how she prefered to stand instead of sitting down, a few winces from her when she sat down. So, when she trudged away from them, they shared a meaningful gaze and Marcus wheeled his chair next to John. They spoke quietly.

"I would bet that she is suffering from some muscle soreness," John mumbled from behind a case file.

Marcus leaned over, pretending to point out something in John's case file. "I won't take that bet. But, how about a little fun?"

John looked intrigued. "I'm in. You go first. Let's see what you got."

Marcus took a beat. He'd need to come up with a prank. "I'm gonna give it a minute. Where did she go?"

John swept the premises for a sign of the blonde profiler. "Bailey's office."

"Let's wait 'til she's on her own." John nodded, knowing full well that their boss possibly wouldn't take too kindly to any prank done to his close friend, in front of him, no less.

* * *

><p>In the early afternoon, Sam received a call that a fellow agent had bumped her car in the parking lot. She'd been sitting in Bailey's office, because they were on standby in case district attorney Hardy, who was in charge of the Satin Slipper killer prosecution, needed their help with cross examination. She saw to the parking lot fender posthaste. All in all, the damage wasn't too great: only a small dent in the left passenger door. The Bureau would cover the charges. Sam and the agent agreed to meet later on in the day to figure out the red tape.<p>

When Sam arrived at the building lobby through the back doors and walked up to the elevators, she noticed that the elevator that operated for the level of the task force was out of commission. She blanched as she imagined having to walk down seven flights of stairs. And she couldn't stall, since Hardy could call at any minute and she'd left her phone on the sofa table in Bailey's office. No other recourse but to bite the bullet and start the slow descend.

Twenty minutes after Sam had departed Bailey answered a call from the district attorney. They were having a ten-minute recess in court, and Hardy wanted to confer on how to break through the defendant's veneer.

"Our profiler had to step out for a moment. Will my opinion suffice, or do you want both of us to weigh in?"

Bailey heard an audible sigh from the other end of the call. "Both of you, preferably. Locate her and call me pronto," Hardy ordered and hang up.

Bailey sprang up from his leather chair and walked briskly to have a look around the corner over to the elevator, wondering what was taking Sam so long. He saw someone pushing the call button, then gesturing impatiently and walking away. He realised that the elevator wasn't working. How long had it been out of order? Was Sam coming down the stairs?

He headed to the stairs, pushed the door open and looked up through the railing opening to the upper levels. He could hear someone descending the stairs. "Sam?"

Sam had made it to the -3 level of the stairs, though it had been sheer agony. She mused idly that one day, she might laugh about all of this, but that thought was little consolation. She just tried to keep her head down and power through.

She paused when she heard her name. She looked down over the railing which she leaning on as she trudged back to the task force. She saw Bailey looking up at her. "Hey," she tried to say cheerily. "Shit, is it time? Is Hardy waiting?"

"Yes, he is. How much longer will you be?"

"Three, four minutes?" she wagered a guess and started coming down again.

Bailey closed his eyes and shook his head. Four minutes wouldn't do at all. Only one thing left to do. He started running up the stairs, two steps with each leap. He reached a startled Sam at the turn landing between levels -4 and -3. "Come on," he remarked and scooped her up in his arms.

Sam yelped and her hands flew to twine around his neck. "Jesus. Put me down, I'm too heavy," she ordered and tried to wiggle herself onto stable ground.

"I've got you, so quit squirming," he shot back and took a few steps down.

"Bail, seriously, we're gonna fall over," she protested in her apprehension.

"No, we're not," he reasoned and picked up his pace of descending. As he grew more confident in his movements, she began to relax, and dare she say it, enjoy the ride. And she had to admit that his way was faster. So who was she to argue, really?

He'd noticed her giving up the fight, but she remained silent. "You know, this is the second time in less than a week that I'm carrying a Waters around," he remarked as they reached level -5.

Her eyes flew to his face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I picked up Chloe on Saturday and, I'm sorry to say it, but she refused to be put down," he joked.

"That's my girl," Sam chuckled out loud. "And what happened then?"

"I had to put the coffee on with her in my arms."

Sam smiled at the mental image of Bailey pretending to be put-upon and her baby girl loving every minute of his fake annoyance.

"And what if _I_ refuse to be put down?" she teased him.

"Then I'll have to walk into the task force with you in my arms and a significant number of the agents will think that we just eloped in the staircase," he drawled and quirked his eyebrow.

"Why, Malone!" she breathed out, trying to sound scandalized. "I think we could do better than the staircase," she uttered in a mock-serious tone before laughing.

They reached the VCTF floor level, and Sam's laughter stopped short when reality hit again. She'd have to ease off from Bailey's arms, and what was more, put weight on her feet again. He was sensitive to her trepidation, and so he carefully scooted down while easing his arm from under her knees. He steadied her onto the ground with his left hand around her upper body and helped her stand straight. "Okay?"

She nodded her head, then flashed a rather shy smile at him. "Thanks for that." They remained close to one another, both of them reflecting on the thing that had occurred between them and dangerously close to forgetting its instigating cause. Sam's eyes searched Bailey's face and she was about to say something when real world beckoned again.

Someone entered the staircase a few levels above them and started jogging up. Bailey gestured toward the door. "I'm gonna..."

Sam nodded her head. "I'll be hot on your heels. You know what I mean," she added dryly when he raised his eyebrows at her. He disappeared through the door, and Sam caught the door just as it was about to close.

Bailey was just greeting DA Hardy on the speaker when she reached his office. They advised him how to question the defendant in light of the defense strategy. They were on the phone for five minutes before court was called back into session. After that, Bailey got another call, leaving Sam little choice but to head to her own quarters.

Alone in her office, she slumped down to the sofa and closed her eyes, the memory of Bailey carrying her down like she was a feather coming to her instantly. A thrilled smile danced on her features for a long time.

* * *

><p>Sam looked up from the files when she heard Marcus saying something to her. To her horror, she witnessed him doing lunges in the middle of her office. Dumbstruck, she realised that he was oohing, aahing and saying: "Feel the burn, Sam! Oh yeah, that's it!" over and over again.<p>

As Marcus was having fun at Sam's expense, Bailey stepped out of his office, on his way to the command center to talk to George. He happened to look at John, who appeared curiously amused by looking in the direction of Sam's office. Something was amiss. He turned swiftly on his heels and headed to Sam's office.

John, for his part, could see Marcus doing lunges in the office, and was chuckling on the inside when he spotted Bailey walking to Sam's rescue. He quickly sat down and immersed himself in a case file. Each man must fend for himself, and all that.

Sam was still too mortified at her co-worker's antics to snap out of it. A shadow entered her line of sight, and she looked to the door.

Marcus stopped doing lunges when Sam's puzzled look shifted from him to the door. The boss had entered the office.

"What's going on?" Bailey asked, leveling a look at his employee that managed to be both blank and grave. Marcus looked appropriately chastened.

"Nothing, just adding to my running total of the day," Marcus explained off the cuff. Bailey continued to stare at him silently, and finally he excused himself from Sam's office. As soon as he was out in the clear, he spied John laughing to his heart's content at his desk.

"Man, that was some bum luck," John managed to chortle out when the glum-looking Marcus took a seat. The relatively new agent would make himself as inconspicuous as possible for a few days, no two ways about it.

Sam blew out a breath as soon as Marcus had gone. "Thanks, Bail. Wish you'd gotten here sooner. How do you think it was, Marcus starting to do lunges and saying 'feel the burn, Sam' all of a sudden?"

"I don't know. Funny?" Bailey's serious expression broke into a grin. He finally let out his amusement that had been bubbling under the surface. Sam looked crestfallen at his nonchalant attitude toward her embarrassment. Then she thought the whole thing over, remembering her bewilderment as Marcus had started doing the exercise right in the middle of her office.

"Okay, it was a little funny," she admitted and he burst into laughter. She started laughing, too, getting into it before she felt the effects of their joint gaiety on her body. "Ow," she muttered and brought a hand to soothe her abdominal muscles, which were sore, but not to the extent of her battered legs.

"Take a deep breath," he advised her after seeing her wince. She nodded, did as he recommended and waited for the muscles to relax.

"I wonder how he knew," she muttered.

"I think he just guessed," he ventured. Sam had to agree that he was probably right. Marcus must have noticed something wrong in her walk and drawn his own conclusions. Had Marcus told anyone else? Like John? Would others make fun of her, too?

She then came to wonder how Bailey had known to come to her rescue. "Did you need something?"

He shook his head. "No, just came in to see how you were doing." They shared a silly grin and just looked at one another for a while.

Bailey's cell phone started ringing and he excused himself from her presence, heading for the door. Her silly grin followed him out of the door.

* * *

><p>Bailey was in the thick of it, trying to juggle his brief case and a pizza box with the opening of the garage door. Both he and Frannie had plans for the evening, but they'd agreed to dine together.<p>

Finally, he managed to open the door. "Frances, I'm home!" he announced and put the pizza box on the kitchen counter.

"Hi, I'm in my room!" came Frances' reply.

"I brought dinner," he remarked and paused by the kitchen island to glance over the mail that had arrived. Just his monthly read on cigars and the credit card statement.

"Ooh, pizza!" Frances commented as soon as she spotted the box. "I'll set the table, shall I?"

"Thanks, sweetheart," he nodded and headed into his bedroom to change and put his gun in the safe.

When he returned to the kitchen Frances had already set the table. She'd also taken out the salad left over from the other night to eat with the pepperoni and mushroom pizza. "How many slices?"

He paused to gauge his hunger level. "I'll start with two and see where it takes me," he said and blew a kiss into his daughter's hair. "How was your day?"

"Oh, it was fine. I got a B plus on my Italian exam, so it's all good. How was yours?" They sat down at the table and dug in.

"It was... fun," he chuckled. "Sam overdid a fitness class last night and she was in a world of pain."

"That was fun? Poor Sam, more like," she sympathized with the woman's aches.

"No, she found it funny, too. She has a sense of humour about herself," he explained with a smile.

"Ah," Frances replied, still wondering a little why her dad seemed so entertained.

Speaking of Sam with Frances reminded him of the small talk he'd had with the woman last weekend. Sam had mentioned that his daughter might be feeling anxious about college, and he hadn't had a chance yet to bring it up.

"You know, last Saturday, when I went downstairs to help her with the sculpture, Sam mentioned that... You seemed to be a little unsure about college."

"Oh," Frances looked down at her plate and bit her lip.

"Is there something troubling you?" Bailey eyed his daughter closely.

Frances sighed. "Not really, it's just that... Starting college is going to be a huge change. It's a new start, in a new city, and my track record isn't exactly stellar in that department," she mumbled, not daring to meet her dad's eyes.

"Sweetheart, you aren't the same girl you were when you moved here. I believe in you. You're going to shine at college."

"Thanks," she looked heartened to hear his optimistic outlook for her future.

"No problem. You've got a good head on your shoulders."

"Which is in large part thanks to you," she smiled at her dad. "You really pulled me through."

Bailey gave a tiny shrug of the shoulders. "I'm a dad. It's what we do."

Frances made a nonplussed face before asking: "So, Sam just guessed what was eating at me?"

"Yeah."

"Man, I can't wait to start studying psychology," Frances enthused and continued: "You and Sam seem to tell each other a lot."

"I guess. If I knew that something was bothering Chloe and she hadn't sworn me to secrecy, I'd tell Sam in a heartbeat. It's a parent thing," he finished his reasoning.

Frances didn't pursue the topic, but she thought to herself that her dad and Sam definitely shared a bond that extended beyond the bounds of parenting help.

* * *

><p>Early evening, there was hustle and bustle in the fire station house. Sam was in Chloe's room, packing everything the little ballerina would need for the recital that same evening. The girl herself was practicing her solo in the play area. Angel was making last-minute adjustments to another spectacular dress she'd sown for the occasion. When the tutu was perfect, the artist emerged from the hobby room to take the tutu to Sam. She witnessed her friend packing Chloe's little backbag and moving considerably easier than she had that morning. She was even humming along to Chloe's solo music.<p>

"You seem more chipper now than you were this morning," Angel commented and handed the tutu to Sam. "I take it that the soreness has gone away?"

"No, it's still there, but it is better."

"So what worked?"

Sam stopped to consider the reason why the soreness didn't bother her as much. "Maybe the muscles are already healing? Or I've just gotten used to it," she guessed.

"Just remember to stretch next time, okay?"

"Hey, I did stretch. It just didn't work. I'll be sure to take it easier next time. Marcus made fun of me at work," Sam shook her head and folded the tutu carefully.

"Oh yeah?" Angel invited her friend to share more.

"Uh huh. He came to my office, and out of the blue, he started doing lunges. Didn't see that one coming," Sam muttered and Angel chuckled. "Luckily, Bail came along and put a stop to it, but even he found it all very funny."

Angel looked at her friend more closely and saw it again. This little expression of... something that she could spot all the more often from Sam when the subject of Bailey came up.

"Speaking of, is he coming here, or is he meeting us at the ballet studio?"

"He'll meet us at the studio. There, I think we have everything. Chloe, honey, time to get going!"

* * *

><p>Angel was helping Chloe put on her tutu in the bustling backroom. The artist had fashioned the garment after a pajama – she'd sown buttons and a pocket on the front. The colour was light blue, and just above the skirt there was a faint, white band of speckles, fashioned after Sandman's magical sand. Sam looked on the pair, bobby pins in her mouth and ready to step in if Chloe's ballerina bun showed signs of loosening.<p>

Luckily, the bun emerged from the tutu undamaged**.** While the little girl put on her white ballerina shoes, the instructor came in to announce that the recital would begin in fifteen minutes and asked the parents to leave the backroom in five. Angel bent down to look Chloe in the eyes. "Everything feel good?" At the girl's nod, she continued: " I'll be taking pictures. Break a leg, honey. You'll be great, no matter what. I'll go and find Bailey and get some seats for us." With that, Angel headed out into the hallway.

Now, it was Sam's turn to kneel down, which she did with some effort, but it was for her baby girl, so it was worth it. "Okay, how are you feeling?"

"Good, I guess. Nervous," Chloe admitted to her jitters. Her mother caressed her cheek.

"Remember what I told you some time ago? That if you fall down, you just pretend that it was part of the dance and carry on. No one will be able to tell," Sam soothed her daughter's concerns.

"But you and Angel and Uncle Bailey will know."

"Don't ever worry about any of us being disappointed in you. We could never be, honey. Besides, we're all old enough to know that it's the effort that counts, not the outcome."

Chloe scrunched her face. "I thought it was the thought that counts."

"Well, it is, but in this case, it's the effort. But Angel was right. You're going to be great. Give me a kiss." After the kiss Sam straightened her form. "I'm gonna go find Angel and Uncle Bailey. Do you have everything you need?"

Chloe did a mental check list. "Yeah."

"Okay, honey. Break a leg," Sam encouraged the girl and watched her go meet up with the other little ballerinas and the instructor in front of the mirror.

Then, Sam walked the same way Angel had. When she reached the performance hall it was already packed with people. Some spectators would end up watching the recital standing up. She looked around for her friends' familiar frames. Angel caught Sam's eyes from other side of room, and Sam started heading there. Angel was sitting at the end of one row of chairs, and Bailey was sitting in front Angel, curiously preoccupied by something under his chair. There wasn't a free chair beside Angel, so she'd have to sit with Bailey.

"Hey!" Sam greeted Bailey, who shot up from his seat. "No need for alarm, it's just me," she laughed as he stepped aside to let her pass. "What were you fishing for underneath your seat?"

"Just making sure the water isn't leaking from the daffodils." They both sat down, Sam taking her seat gingerly, mindful of her sore legs.

"You got her daffodils?" Sam asked with a smile, touched by his considerate gesture.

"And a small panda bear dressed as a ballerina." Sam and Angel shared an amused smile. Bailey was endearingly gung-ho about his first children's ballet recital.

"That is so sweet of you. Chloe will love them, Bail."

Angel leaned over at the mention of Chloe's name. "How was she when you left her?"

"She seemed fine. A little nervous, but we talked it over."

"Poor Chloe," Bailey sighed.

"And poor Sam," Angel added. "She's all nervous for Chloe on the inside."

"Don't remind me," Sam muttered.

Angel waved off Sam's worries. "She'll be fine. I don't think she inherited your bad case of the nerves. That's why _you_ had to abandon your dream of becoming a professional ballerina," she winked.

"Well, that, and my general lack of balance," Sam added playfully, making Bailey laugh.

Angel's eyes flashed with mischief. "Remember the one time when you threw up on your tutu and my mother had to dash..."

Sam shushed Angel with a pointed look. "Yes, that's enough from the trip down memory lane chorus, thank you very much," she uttered, shaking her head while both Bailey and Angel looked inordinately delighted.

The lights dimmed a little, signaling to the spectators that it was time to find either a seat or a place by the walls. Five minutes later, the instructor appeared on the stage to introduce the recital. After her introduction, the lights dimmed more, the music began and the audience collectively held their breaths as the little ballerinas tip toed onto the stage and began dancing.

When Sam spotted her baby girl, she shot a look at her companions that somehow managed to be both thrilled and nervous. Unfortunately, Chloe was dancing on the opposite side of the stage to the adults' seats. Sam, Bailey and Angel strained their necks to watch Chloe's movements.

Chloe lagged behind at times, but on the whole she was focused throughout and had clearly practiced a lot. At points, the ballerinas would sit on the floor whilst one of them danced her solo. Some danced with more precision than others, but they all looked so endearing in their costumes that the spectators were equally thralled with each and everyone of them.

It became apparent that the turns for the solos were going in a clockwise circle, and when the girl sitting on Chloe's right stood up, Sam's anxious anticipation ratcheted up from a solid six to a ten, manifested by her starting to click the heel of her right shoe on the floor. When the girl made her way back to the circle, Sam's palms started sweating.

In her eagerness to dance her solo, Chloe shot up quickly and almost lost her balance when her left foot slipped a little. She swayed to the left but she was able to correct her balance and cover her mishap well. Her minor accident rattled far more the adults, who were already on the edges of their seats.

Angel's breath hitched and she nearly dropped Sam's expensive camera to the floor. She recovered well and managed to snap a multitude of pictures of Chloe's solo. Bailey jerked toward the stage a little, as if feeling the need to go catch the girl before she might hit the floor. Sam let out a small, quiet gasp and jerked forward, too, unconsciously trying to protect her daughter. Quite of its own accord, her right hand flew to clasp Bailey's left hand, seeking reassurance from a like mind.

In their tense trepidation of the events unfolding on the stage, neither Sam nor Bailey realised her unconscious action. As they watched Chloe dance her solo perfectly, they began to relax a little, but neither let go of the other's hand. And so they held hands for the remaining duration of the recital, their hands finally parting at the end. They smiled at one another when final cues of the music sounded and the applause began.

The little ballerinas took their bows and then dashed off to the backroom to hear their instructor's final words. Sam and Angel stood up and hugged each other in joy and relief over the chair row.

"Whew! Glad that's over. Did you get good photos?"

"I think so."

"Thanks for picking up the slack in the photographing department."

"My pleasure."

While the adults waited for the little ballerina to come to them, Bailey unwrapped the small bouquet of daffodils, held it in one hand and the panda bear in the other, ready for Chloe's arrival. The sight brought a smile to Sam's face.

Sam took the panda bear and inspected it closely, marveling at how Bail had come to buy such a thing. "How did this happen?" she shook her head in slight disbelief.

"Frances and I went shopping for her last weekend. I saw that in one of the shops. It's from both of us."

Sam felt guilty. "Oh, why didn't I think of inviting her? Tell her I'm sorry," she pleaded.

"Don't worry about it. She had plans that she'd made weeks ago."

"Oh, here she comes!" Angel pointed towards the open double door through which the Sleepy ballerina came skipping. Sam waded through the crowds and sweptthe girl into her arms. "You were wonderful!"

"I almost fell," Chloe mumbled, a little embarrassed.

"But you didn't in the end. I bet most people didn't even notice," Sam consoled her daughter. "You wanna see Angel and Uncle Bailey? Let's go," Sam released Chloe from her arms and they headed to the other side of the room.

Chloe's face lit up when she realised that Bailey had truly come to her recital. "Uncle Bailey, what did you think?"

"What did I think? Does this answer your question?" he knelt down and produced his bouquet from behind his back.

"Thanks!" Chloe took the flowers and looked delighted, if a little perplexed.

"Know why I picked this color? Because one wise little girl once said to me that yellow is the happiest color, and this is a happy occasion," he said making Chloe giggle.

"But there's more! This one's from Frannie and me." He whipped out the panda bear out of the plastic bag and Chloe squealed.

"Mom! Uncle Bailey got me a ballerina bear!" The little girl sounded overjoyed.

"I can see that, sweetheart. How about you say thank you?"

"Thank you!" Chloe threw her arms around Bailey's neck and hugged him.

"You're very welcome, Chlo." Bailey wrapped his arms around the little ballerina.

Sam observed the pair, a little touched by the bond they shared.

Chloe broke off the embrace, hugged her panda bear tight and started chatting to Angel about the recital and what a hit her costume had been with her fellow ballerinas.

Sam and Bailey shared a happy look. Then, she got to wondering whether he'd enjoyed his first children's ballet recital. "So, did you have fun? Be honest," Sam warned him against false pleasantries.

Bailey took a beat, considering the evening he'd had. He smiled. "Yeah, I did. It's good to see something fun and innocent for a change."

In fact, as he reflected on the day he'd had, he realised that he savoured every bit of it. Sam's muscle soreness and all that it had entailed in the task force. Having a nice early dinner with Frances before they went their separate ways for the evening. Watching a group of young ballerinas fumble around and have the time of their lives. One for the history books.


	12. Mine, Immaculate Dream Made Breath and S

(Thanks to demonchilde!)**  
><strong>

**MINE, IMMACULATE DREAM MADE BREATH AND SKIN**

Jack let the cigarette butt drop to the ground. He stomped on it to extinguish the dying flame for good. He was on his way to check the surveillance footage again, but had made a detour to accommodate for this. A chance to see his Sam again.

He had to admit that he was getting impatient to contact her again. He wished he could call her. But no, the bastard Malone had done a better job than he'd expected at hiding and withholding Sam's current cell phone and landline numbers. It looked like an old dog could learn new tricks, after all.

So, he was reduced to waiting outside crime scenes and social events to see a glimpse of his beloved. Luckily, the security measures for the daughter weren't as strict, and he could easily follow the activities of the girl's hobby places, for instance.

Sometimes, he allowed himself to ponder whether or not Sam would miss the girl once they were together, but everytime, he abandoned the thought quickly. The daughter wouldn't matter. Not once they were reunited.

He opened the door and sidled into his car, then slid down the seat to make himself as invisible as possible. He figured that the recital would be nearing its end. He'd only arrived once the recital was taking place. No use in making himself stand out while the merry families milled about in the vicinity of the ballet studio.

He'd taken a little stroll around the block, so he knew where Sam's car was parked. They would walk past him – on the other side of the road, of course.

Jack eased lower on the driver's seat. He closed his eyes, resting them for the upcoming labour of watching the footage all night long.

He needed to look into motels in Chicago. He wanted to keep tabs on Sam while she was on her mandatory training weekend. Maybe it was time he contacted her again. After all, it had been months since he'd last reached out to her.

He snapped out of his musings when he heard laughter and cheerful chatter. Families were starting to file out of the ballet studio. He observed them, feeling nothing but vague indifference in the face of their joy. They meant nothing.

Parents with their rug rats got into their cars and started driving off. He adjusted his position a little when he spied Angel coming out of the building and heading to the car. He cursed quietly; he wouldn't get to see Sam as up close as he'd thought.

Jack's night got another black mark when he noticed Sam coming out with Chloe and Malone, the man carrying the girl. The agent had been at the recital. The thought made him grit his teeth. He hadn't figured on that.

He watched as the three of them discussed something animatedly. Sam had a few bags in her arms and a... bouquet of yellow flowers, daffodils, peeking out of one bag.

Angel drove the car from behind him and pulled up in front of him, three cars ahead. He lowered his position, congratulating himself on having parked in a space in between street lights. Sam, Chloe and Malone noticed Angel's arrival and headed to the car, taking care when crossing the street. Malone was still carrying the girl.

They made it safely across the road. Malone kissed the girl on the cheek and set her down on the ground. Sam opened the back seat door, put her bags on the seat and then made sure Chloe had buckled her seat belt.

She closed the back seat door, said a few words to Malone after which they kissed one another on the cheek. Jack pressed his fists into the seat, cushioning the force of disgust, absording it. Thankfully, the contact didn't last long.

Sam turned away and slid into the passenger seat. Malone closed the door behind her, gave a wave and watched the three women drive off. Then, he started walking in the same direction. Jack started his car and drove into the sparse traffic along the street.

He kept the velocity at a crawl, trailing Malone and keeping his eye on the man. The agent walked at a brisk pace, oblivious to the fact that his most-wanted criminal was fifty feet behind him. Jack could put a bullet in him right now and he'd never see it coming.

Malone reached a street corner and turned to the right. Jack reached the intersection, watched out for other traffic and then drove straight on, casting one final look at the agent walking under the shadow of trees.

Malone hadn't had a clue. The thought brought a twisted smile to his face.


	13. Something to Pin Your Feelings on

(Once again, the thanks go to demonchilde!)**  
><strong>

**SOMETHING TO PIN YOUR FEELINGS ON **

The next morning, Sam popped her head in Bailey's office only to see it deserted. Her friend was elsewhere in the premises, for his coat and suit case were in their normal places in the corner and by the desk.

She carried on her way, this time to her own office. She opened the door, shook off her coat and flicked on the light. She stopped in her tracks when she realised that her office was full of gym equipment: dumbbells, a few antiquated step machines, even a utility bench. Another practical prank. By John, she guessed. She let out an irritated breath. Would she need to return all the equipment to the gym in the building by herself?

The phone on her desk rang, and she side-stepped dumbbells and clambered over the bench to pick up. Good thing her muscles weren't as sore anymore. "Hello?" she anwered instead her regular "Doctor Waters" opening.

"Hey Sam, Bailey wants to see you in the command center. I suggest you hop to it, using the skipping rope on your desk." It sounded like John was trying hard to contain his laughter.

Sam rolled her eyes. "Very funny, Johnny boy." She hung up the phone, made her way back to the door and headed to the command center. As usual, Bailey was seated at the front end of the long table. She greeted him with a soft "hey" and caressed his shoulder fleetingly. He smiled at her as she sat down beside him, then watched her level an irritated stare at John, who struggled to hide his smile. In a wise move, Marcus didn't register any merriment at John's practical joke.

"First order of business: Sam will interrogate Lesher today, using Samson's letters as leverage. Let's hope Lesher will start to see sense after that. Second, George has received information on several crimes that might be connected to the Tuscaloosa case. I'd like for you, John and Marcus, to take a look at them, talk to the local police departments, make sure nothing is missing from the case files. Sam will go through them later," Bailey breezed through the topics of the meeting.

"Oh, and John? Sam and I will be prepping for the Lesher interrogation here," Bailey intoned, and the younger agent took the hint and nodded his head. The boss had just ordered him to lug the equipment out of Sam's office.

* * *

><p>Frances put the final touches to her social studies exam. She read through her essay, corrected some grammatical errors, enhanced the flow of a few sentences and then laid her pencil down. She got up and walked over to the teacher's table, placing her exam paper on the neat pile. Then, she returned to her desk. Mr Lindt, the social studies teacher, was famously strict. He didn't allow anyone to leave his classroom before the clock struck, even in an exam situation.<p>

Luckily, Frances was sitting by the window in the back, so she could spend the last ten minutes watching out into the sunny front yard. The temperature was a balmy 69 degrees, and students with an off period were hanging out under the trees, waiting for the conclusion of the school week and the beginning of the weekend.

She didn't have any special plans for the weekend ahead. Maybe go to a movie, see Dan and Casey on Sunday on one of the rare days that they didn't spend every waking hour at the youth center. Perhaps she could tune up dad's bike with him and nag him into taking a ride, with her riding in the back.

She checked the clock on the wall above the door. Five minutes to go. She sighed and glanced out of the window again. She froze when she noticed a pale green and white station wagon slowly passing the school. The car could belong to Danny, her on-the-run companion from all those months ago. She leaned over, trying to catch a better glimpse of the ride, but the car drove on and disappeared out of sight.

She leaned back in her chair and puzzled over what Danny could be doing back in Atlanta. She knew that he had a warrant out for his arrest over breaking and entering and trespassing. The two months she'd spent in his company, on the lam, weren't exactly something she cared to think about nowadays. She'd been a mess, and he hadn't been any better, but they had stuck together since that way they had a good chance of weathering out the rough times. Finally, she'd taken off after a fight and hopped on a bus back to Atlanta, leaving him to make his way around the dingy towns of rural Louisiana.

At last, the bell rang and Mr Lindt's control no longer held any sway. Frances made a beeline from the classroom to her locker. The hallways were full of her fellow students. Jocks and their cheerleader girlfriends made out in public. Popular kids flashed the latest must-have items their rich parents had bought them in order to inspire envy in their supposed friends. Outcasts formed their own cliques: nerds, grungers, delinquents. She didn't fit in any of those categories, and so she mostly kept her head down and kept to herself.

The delinquents had tried to pressure her to rejoin their group when she came back. Apparently they thought that having a bona fide juvenile offender in their corner would up their street cred. While her dad had had her court records and her plea bargain sealed, the rumours of her involvement in her dad's shooting had spread quickly through the school, only to be exacerbated by her long absence. When she had made it clear to her old clique that she intended to shun them, they'd resorted to taunts flung her way when she was in their field of vision. She pretended to be impervious to the insults, and after a few months, the delinquents gave up on her.

She couldn't wait to leave all of this behind her. At the same time, she had been anxious about the change to come in her life. She was glad that dad had broached the topic two days ago. A weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

She shoved her social studies book into the locker and grabbed her Italian course book. The next class would begin soon. They would have a treat: an exchange student from Italy would tell them about his country, some of it in Italian.

* * *

><p>Sam cricked her neck, first to the left, then to the right and took a deep breath. She was waiting for Sharon Lesher to be brought in. She willed her body to relax, to prepare for the task at hand. Convincing Sharon to give up Jack. This time, Sam had compelling proof to present to the inmate awaiting charges. The legal finesses had yet to be ironed out, which was why Lesher was still stationed at the women's penitentiary in Atlanta instead of Fort Leavenworth's women's facility.<p>

The situation suited the task force. They had more control over Lesher, more chances of keeping her safe as well as having easier access to her. Now, Sam had to try to convince Sharon that her days were numbered, if she didn't help them capture her mentor.

Sam heard steps outside the interview cell. She didn't turn to face Lesher, opting to stare forward until the inmate had shuffled to the table and sat in her chair.

"You again," Lesher commented with disdain written all over her face. "What will it be this time? All the same questions all over again?"

Sam remained silent, only stared at the prisoner, wanting to make her unsettled. "I'm guessing more of the same ol', same ol'. You're a joke," Sharon snorted derisively.

"And yet, here you are. A prisoner, up against the wall," Sam uttered calmly.

"You got lucky, that's all. Besides, I won't be staying here long," Sharon flashed an ominous smile.

Sam shook her head. "I don't think you're going anywhere."

"Oh?"

Sam took a beat, then pursued the rose angle. "Why do you think Jack sent you that rose, all those months ago?"

"So you did see that. Well, I think because he misses me. What do you think, doctor Waters?"

"It was his way of saying goodbye to you," Sam kept her voice steady.

"Right. 'Cos roses are standard issue when it comes to break-ups," Sharon fired back.

"Then there are also the letters he wrote to an inmate here. Fishing for information about the prison," Sam said and watched Sharon closely. First, the inmate's face flashed surprise and apprehension, then confidence.

"Well, what do you know? He is going to help me escape."

"No, he isn't. He is going to kill you, and the sooner, the better, for him," Sam insisted. "If he gets close to you in here, the only one getting out will be him."

"I don't believe you," the inmate spat out.

"He doesn't want you. How many times did you come onto him, only to have him to refuse you?" Sam knew she'd hit a raw spot when Sharon averted her gaze. Sam let the moment sink in for the woman.

Finally, Sharon spat out: "You don't have a clue about anything, me or him. I'm sick of talking to you."

"You were fleeing from him when we caught you. You know that there's no going back to him. Don't repeat your past mistakes."

Sharon blew out a breath and pursed her lips, choosing to not respond. A small fraction of doubt invaded her thoughts. What if the agent was right after all?

* * *

><p>Sam slumped in her chair as soon as Lesher was escorted out of sight. She breathed deeply, allowing her body to relax after the gruesome effort of interrogating the inmate and fearing for the worst: for Lesher to reveal something devastating about Coop's death. Fortunately, that hadn't transpired.<p>

She heard muffled footsteps from the other side of a door that was beside a big one-way mirror. Bailey had observed the interrogation from there, and was now coming to confer with her. She turned her head to greet him when he opened the door. "Hey," she said softly, and he responded in kind.

"What do you think?"

She blew out a breath. "I'll need some time to process it all. How did it look to you?"

He sat on the desk, next to her. "Hard to say. Now that we've blown her hope of Jack rescuing her out of the water, she'll see her impending future of incarceration in a totally different way. She isn't completely under his sway."

"Anymore," Sam pointed out and chewed unconsciously on her lower lip, trying to assess the state of mind of the inmate.

He watched her turn silent. He'd seen her release of anxiety as soon as Lesher had been ushered out. He knew that she'd been dreading some horrifying detail Lesher might throw in her face. "You okay?"

Her eyes shifted toward him, looking puzzled, but under his steady gaze she cottoned onto his thoughts soon. She nodded her head and smiled reassuringly. "I'm fine. Let's get going."

* * *

><p>As the day drew to a close, Sam found herself in Bailey's office again, lounging on the sofa. They would start going over the crimes which seemed connected to the Tuscaloosa killings next week.<p>

For now, however, the work week was over. As was Bailey's habit, the lights were dimmed and classical music was playing softly. Bailey and his classical music. Now was the perfect opportunity to ask him why he loved it so much.

She turned her gaze to the man sitting across from her. "Bail? Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," he conceded and drew his eyes away from a book on chess, which he was reading.

"Why do you love classical music so much?" she leveled a curious look at him.

He made a mental note of the number of the page he'd been reading before placing the book on the table between them. "Why do you want to know?"

Sam shrugged her shoulders. "Just curious, that's all."

"Well..." his voice trailed off as he sought the words to explain why he enjoyed the works of Mozart, Beethoven and Verdi. Lost in thought, his hands took on a little life of their own. Sam followed their motions, captivated once again.

Finally, he answered her question, oblivious to the effect he'd been having on her unawares. "I love thinking that hundreds of years ago, people listened to the same notes as I listen to today. It's timeless and so graceful in the way that it manages to express so much, to evoke feelings in its listeners," he finished to find Sam smiling at him.

"Good answer," she murmured. "Me? It kinda makes me sleepy," she confessed and he chuckled. True to her confession, her eyes drooped shut. She breathed in deeply.

"I'm glad John cleared out all the gym stuff out of my office," she opined out of the blue. Bailey thought to himself that she really must be tired. "I still have to get back at him, and Marcus," she added.

"I'm sure you'll think of something," he reassured her.

"Oh, you bet I will," she flashed that devious grin of hers again. He shook his head and smiled in turn.

Speaking of their coworker. "Oh, did John tell you? We're up against the fire department on Sunday," Bailey informed her.

"What? The day after tomorrow? Why didn't anyone tell me?" she fired off, her sleepiness now a thing of the past.

"Calm down, Sam. John's made a memo detailing the dates of the games, didn't he give it to you?"

"No," she reasserted. She certainly hadn't seen any schedule.

"The schedule is also plastered in the commissary and in front of my office," he pointed out.

Damn, she'd completely missed it. Sam groaned aloud. At his questioning look, she informed him: "If you expect that I'm somehow going to transform into some sports nut now that I work out regularly, you'll be sorely disappointed," she uttered dryly.

"You call working out twice in one week for the first time 'regularly'?" he enquired, tongue in cheek. At her long-suffering, withering look, he continued: "So, since the pure joy of playing the game doesn't appeal to you, how about another dinner to make it worth your while?"

She sat up straight, keen on seeing where he was heading with this. "Cooked by you?"

"Yup."

"Okay, you twisted my arm," she quipped. Her glee grew when she reflected on the last dinner they'd shared. He'd been wearing the apron whilst cooking. She would have to remember to bring her camera this time.

* * *

><p>Sam was sitting at the kitchen table, absent-mindedly sipping her coffee while perusing the latest Kodak catalogue. She was tempted to by a new lense for her camera. She'd just developed the photos from Chloe's recital; the pictures had turned out great, once again. Angel's artistic streak certainly wasn't confined to just sculpting.<p>

The radio was on, a stream of jazzy music providing an easy-listening backdrop to her lense lust. It was another sunny Saturday that promised a glorious summer to come. The kitchen window was a little ajar, in an attempt to create a pleasant breeze of air into the house.

The lenses lost some of their attraction and she let her mind wander. She would have her two-week vacation in a matter of weeks. She would be on holiday straight after the training weekend in Chicago. She remembered that Charles' 60th birthday would take place during her vacation. She wondered why Helen hadn't mentioned that when she called them on Thursday to ask how Chloe's recital had gone. Maybe Helen was waiting for the initiative to come from her.

Sam's personal relationship her former in-laws had taken a beating, despite her best intentions, since the conclusion of the custody trial. Chloe's grandparents were calling her less frequently. Sam hoped against hope that this would be just a minor hiccup in the relationship. Chloe hadn't even seen her grandpa from her side; it would pain Sam to see her daughter stripped of the only grandparents she'd ever known.

A car honked outside at the intersection and Sam snapped out of her musings. She listened to the radio and started quietly humming to the music, having heard the song playing once or twice before. She took another sip of coffee that she'd spiced with cinnamon. She'd just placed the cup on the table when she heard a buzzing sound. Inside the house. Quite near her.

She diverted her gaze to the direction of the buzzing and jumped up from her chair when she spied a wasp, struggling against the glass of the open window. She kept her eye on the insect and fretted for a while what to do. She gathered her nerve and closed in on the wasp. With one swift move, she pushed the window shut. The action might seem counter-intuitive, but she'd once learned the hard way that wasps tended to fly in small groups, one flying ahead on reconnaisance and a few others following the one taking point a minute or so behind.

Having thwarted the threat of multiple wasps in her house, she then began to worry about how to get rid of the intruder. Could she call Bailey? Where was Angel right now? Her friend had gone on a walk with Denzel. She could probably call Angel and find out her exact location. That's what she would do.

She grabbed her cell phone from the bed in her room and dialled Angel's number quickly. The wasp was still trying to find a way through the glass pane.

She heard Angel pick up. "Hey, I hope you're not calling to ask me go get something, 'cos I'll be home in two minutes."

"Great, 'cos I need your help. There's a wasp inside the house," she whispered, afraid to talk loudly in case Chloe would wake up.

"Okay, hang in there, help is on the way."

"Bye," Sam hissed and hung up. She grabbed the Kodak catalogue, to have something to defend herself if the insect got too close for comfort.

She breathed a sigh of relief when the elevator dinged its arrival on their living quarters level. She abandoned her guard post and headed to greet her friend.

Angel looked like she was ready to get down to business. "Hey, you okay?" she first made sure. After Sam's nod, she handed Denzel's leash to Sam. "One extermination coming up," she joked and took the catalogue Sam offered. She walked without hesitation up to the wasp, followed its movements for a second before executing a precise, fatal blow.

She'd learned to not try Sam's patience by attempting to usher the intruding insects into the safety of open air. The carcass dropped to the kitchen counter. She gave it one more strike, just to be sure. When she'd ascertained that the fiend was dead, she called out to her entomophobic friend: "All clear!" Angel took a piece of tissue paper and picked the bee up with it. The intruder's grave site was the mundane trash can.

Sam took the leash off of Denzel's collar and the dog jogged to his water bowl in the kitchen. Sam followed the canine, informing her friend: "Keep it down, Chloe's sleeping. But thanks," she smiled gratefully.

"No problem. What would you have done if I'd still been at the park?"

"Uh, probably called Bailey," Sam replied in an off-hand manner and scooted down to open the cupboard and reach for the glass cleaner under the sink, missing Angel's reaction.

_No surprise there_, Angel thought to herself. Increasingly, Bailey was the leading man in everyone of Sam's stories.

* * *

><p>Frances rubbed her eyes and yawned, walking out of her room. It was eight o'clock on Sunday morning. She'd been dozing off in her bed for a while, but her rest had been disturbed by her dad's moving around the house. She trudged up to his room and nearly collided with her dad, who chose that moment to walk out.<p>

"Sorry, sweetheart."

"Is okay. What are you up to?" she wondered after she'd taken in his running clothes.

"I'm going for a jog," he explained.

"At this hour? You're crazy," she shook her head fondly. "I'm going back to bed," she announced and turned on her heels.

"I'll be back in an hour," he said to her retreating figure.

"Okay, have fun," she gave him a wave without turning. He heard the strings of her bed squeak as she hit the bed to catch some sleep again. He put on his baseball cap, grabbed his keys from the bowl near the door and exited his house. He took in the sorry state of the petunias on his front yard before beginning to jog down the street.

He headed to a park nearby where he always jogged. The uneven terrain of the park offered many good trails for walking and running. He decided to go easy on himself and run an easier trail than he was used to. After all, he had to be ready for the touch football game in the afternoon. And after that, Sam and Chloe would come over for dinner. He had a busy day ahead.

Speaking of his friend... Their week had been a rollercoaster. First Logan had given them proof about the letters; then they'd interrogated Samson. Sam had met with Wykoff and had heard of his condition. Then, she'd overdone her exercise, leading to a whole lot of ado. He'd gone to see Chloe's recital. On Friday, they'd interviewed Lesher and made plans for today.

No chance to be bored, that was for sure.

He wondered if Wykoff would persist in his offer to help Sam. If the man really was dying, he might insist on being of service to them. He worried that the psychic's fate might impact on Sam, take a toll on her and even make her feel that she was on the edge of the abyss again. Thankfully, this time around she didn't seem on the verge of a burnout. All in all, to him she seemed pretty balanced. Maybe even at peace, sometimes.

He would have to take a closer look at the investigations where Wykoff had helped to obtain vital evidence. See how those cases had held up in court. And then... Maybe he would take Sam up on her offer of going to meet the man.

* * *

><p>Sam had taken pains to warm up before the game and stretch thoroughly after it, even though she'd only played fifteen minutes. But, she had played without incident, and she was taking that as a win, even with the task force's defeat. Those firemen sure didn't kid around much.<p>

So, she was just happy to be sitting at Bailey's kitchen island, sipping her beer (the only one she'd have all night) and waiting for the man to don the white apron. Sadly, the garment had yet to make an appearance, but as Bailey was just taking out the ingredients of the meal, she wasn't about to abadon all hope yet.

"Do you have anything I could snack on? I haven't eaten in five hours, I'm starving," she pleaded Bailey.

"No chocolate this time?" Bailey smiled at his friend.

"Chocolate and beer don't mix," she pointed out.

"Point taken," he conceded and rummaged a cupboard above the microwave. "Nuts sound good to you?"

"No chips or anything?" she asked, looking for a snack on the savoury and unhealthy side of the scale.

"Nope, peanuts is all we have. Cashew nuts, to be exact," he amended. "I can roast them for you, if you'd like," he offered.

She smiled at him and shook her head. "Thanks, but don't go to any trouble, I'll eat them plain," she uttered and stretched her hand for the bag of nuts. After snacking on a few, she commented: "Based on what I know of your eating habits, I would have pegged you for a closet junk food junkie."

"Frannie's been whipping me into shape. She's eaten enough French fries to last a lifetime."

"Oh, when was that?" she asked with a smile, thinking that Janet must have given the girl free reign over her diet.

But, he didn't smile in return. "When she was on the run."

Her heart dropped. "I'm so sorry, Bail, I wasn't thinking. I..."

He cut her off with a fond look. "Don't worry about it, Sam, it's fine. It's in the past, now." He watched her closely to be sure that she didn't beat herself up about her words. She looked at him for a few moments before smiling a little. She wondered how much he and Frances had talked about the two months she'd been a fugitive and he'd been recuperating.

He focused his attention to the ingredients on the table, and thought to himself aloud, partly to distract Sam from her own reproachments. "Where was I? Oh, the bread crumbs, still need those."

Sam, sensing that the moment of the apron was upon them, started fishing out her camera from the bag on the chair next to her. She kept her eyes on him, and positioned the camera so that she'd waste the least time before snapping pictures.

When Bailey was satisfied that he had everything he needed, he took the apron out of the wall cupboard next to the fridge. Sam lifted the camera onto her lap and took off the lens cover. He tied the apron around his waist and turned to her, only to find her armed with her camera.

"Nevermind me, I'm just taking photographic proof. And I did sort of warn you last time," she quipped with a teasing smile.

"A man can wear an apron," he intoned.

"Oh, your alpha male status was never in question," she chuckled and snapped a few more photos. "There, I'm done."

"And what exactly are you going to do with these photos?"

"Selling them to the highest bidder, baby! No, I'm just kidding. They're for me. And Chloe. And Frances, I'm thinking she'll definitely want one to frame and take with her to college," she explained while he just shook his head.

She put down the camera and he started puttering with the ingredients. He would be preparing a goat's cheese salad, pasta with smoked salmon sauce and an apricot crumble, the latter with Frances' help.

"Do you have any plans for your vacation?"

"Oh, nothing special. Just take Chloe to the zoo a lot, maybe an amusement park. Charles' 60th birthday is coming up," she sighed.

"And?" he invited her to carry on.

"And we haven't been invited yet," she remarked pointedly before sipping her beer.

"I didn't know things were that bad," he commiserated.

"Well, that makes two of us," she responded. "I'm gonna call them tonight. I don't care how Helen or Charles feel about me or the ruling of the custody case, I'm not going let Chloe's relationship with her only grandparents go down the toilet."

"But things have been awkward since the trial," he said with a little question in his tone.

"Pretty much, and things didn't really take a turn for the better when we commissioned protection for them, in case Jack might finish what Lesher started. But, anyway," she angled for an upbeat tone.

"Have you heard from your dad?" he ventured to ask.

Sam threw her head backward and rolled her eyes. "He's a lost cause. I haven't heard from him in three years. He hasn't even seen Chloe. _Ever,_" she stressed the last word. Then, her gaze drifted to the patio door, beyond which her daughter and Frances were spending time together. "I can't imagine not being a part of my child's life, you know," she sighed, the bitterness of her tone now gone.

"Sometimes life gets in the way," Bailey remarked and continued chopping the onions. Sam guessed him to be thinking of all the great moments he'd missed in the lives of his own daughters.

"What happened to you was life. What happened to my dad was a decision he made willingly, and he hasn't looked back since. Whereas you..." He turned to look at her. "You've taken what life's thrown at you and made the most of it. And you didn't walk away from Frances when she needed you. Not that you ever would have."

He nodded and returned to his task. She munched on a few cashew nuts and sipped her beverage.

"So, when are you going to have _your_ vacation, hm?"

"What vacation?"

"_Exactly_ my point, Malone. You should do something fun with Frances, before she goes off to college."

"Music to my ears!" Frances yelled from the back door. The girls had been enjoying the warm weather on the patio. Chloe had even performed some bits of her ballet solo for the older girl's enjoyment.

Then, the brunette girl materialised in front of them. "Yeah, what should we do? I vote for Rome! I'd get to practice my Italian," she reasoned. "And you'd get to see the country from where your grandpa emigrated," she added as further enticement to her dad.

"Are you Italian, Uncle Bailey?" Chloe piped up as she walked up to her mom.

"He's half Italian, half Irish, sweetie," Sam informed her little girl.

"Wow! What are we, mom?"

"I'm not entirely sure. My great great grandfather might have been Swedish. That's where I must have gotten my maiden name, Anderson."

"Swedish! That's so cool. Where is Sweden?"

"It's in Europe, in the north."

"I think I have an atlas somewhere in my room. Let's see if we can find it," Frances offered. Sam watched the two of them disappear into Frances' room. Then, she observed Bailey for a while. He was taking the bones out of the fillet of smoked salmon, concentrating hard on his task.

She broke the lull in the conversation and pursued Frances' topic. "You should go to Italy. Visit the Colosseum, eat a pizza, go to an Italian opera production, enjoy a latte. If you drank lattes, that is," Sam laughed before adding: "And, you would get to see Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel ceiling for yourself."

He shot a surprised look at her. "You know about that?"

"Your tattoo? Yup. It's kinda hard to miss, Bail," she teased and snacked on a few cashew nuts.

"I meant about the Sistine chapel bit," he said, still looking at her.

"Oh. I don't remember where and when I picked it up. I just know it," she tilted her head. He accepted her reply without further questions and set his eyes on the salmon again.

Sam pushed the bowl of cashew nuts away. No use in spoiling her appetite. "Mind if I peruse your book collection again?"

"Go right ahead," he acquiesced, now starting to chop the fish fillet.

"Oh, I haven't returned that e. e. cummings collection yet, have I?"

"No rush." She nodded even though he didn't see it, stood up from her bar chair and closed in on Bailey's book shelves. But, although she spent a long time in front of the books, she couldn't find a work that captured her imagination in the same way cummings' poems instantly had.

He'd heard her sighing a few times. "What's going on there?"

"Nothing. I just can't decide which book to read," she lamented.

"What type of poetry would you like to read?"

"That's the thing, I don't really know. Nothing that I've glanced at has caught my fancy. Any recommendations?"

He left the kitchen nook and joined her in front of the books. He took a good, hard look at her, sizing her up in a way. She smiled under his intense scrutiny, amused that he should ponder the issue so hard. Finally, he picked a book and handed it over to her, reciting: "I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke loose on the wind."

He'd taken her by surprise. She didn't even bother to check who the poet was. She flashed a pleased grin to him. "Sold."

* * *

><p>Angel and John were lounging on his sofa, exhausted from the hike they'd gone on after the touch football game. Denzel was resting near the front door, where John had crumpledup an old, black fleece blanket.<p>

"Did you work out how to correct the tilting on the 'Uh oh' piece?" John was referring to a specific sculpture which Angel was having trouble creating.

"Not yet. I may have to ask Ron's opinion on it. See if it'd work with a lighter ribcage," Angel mused, not really watching the television.

"Let me ask you something." Angel paused for a while, trying to come up with a way to frame her question. "How are Sam and Bailey at the task force?"

"What do you mean?" John continued to stare at the television, her question apparently not piquing his interest.

"I mean, how do they behave? Nowadays?"

"As opposed to before?" At her affirmative nod he pondered the behavior of his coworker and boss for a moment. He hadn't really seen any change. "Same as always. They've always been pretty tight, you know that."

"So no change?" she prodded.

"Well, maybe they're spending a little more in one another's company. Sam's pretty much always in his office at the end of the day."

"That's what I thought." Angel rubbed her face.

"You thought what? That something's going on between them?"

She took a minute to sort out her opinions. She believed that something was going on with her best friend. She'd witnessed Sam falling in love with Tom, and there were definitely signs of the same fate with Bailey. Whereas the man in question was harder to read. Apart from spending more time with Sam, there wasn't really any stark change in his demeanour. In a way, he was behaving as he'd always behaved with Sam. And what did that mean, exactly? "No, I don't think something going on between those two. Yet. They're definitely heading there. The kicker is, I don't believe she realises it. Probably he doesn't, either." She bit her lip.

"And this is bad, somehow? Do you have something against Bailey?"

Angel smiled to herself as she considered how she'd come around on the man. She'd been opposed to him when he'd sought Sam out and coaxed her out of her self-imposed exile. Angel had been worried for Sam's safety, believing that laying low would be the thing for her friend. Now, she knew two things: she'd been in the wrong, and that Sam's safety was Bailey's first priority. "No, I don't. I'd just rather that they were aware of it. I'm not making any sense, am I?" she chuckled.

"Your words, not mine." She retaliated by flicking his nose, then blowing a kiss on it.

* * *

><p>On Tuesday night, Sam called Melinda again to set another appointment for next week. Nothing was really bothering her, but she wanted to keep her therapist in the loop about Lesher's interrogations, and there was no harm talking over her emotions on the subject.<p>

She pondered that she might as well bring up Wykoff with Melinda, too. The last time the man had been in her life had been fraught with stress, and she'd identified with him more than she usually did with people she came across in the course of investigations. She'd even wondered if his fate awaited her somewhere down the road.

She considered Wykoff's offer again, with conflicted feelings. There was no denying that his suggestion tempted her. The psychic might give them a clue as to Jack's true identity, or how he'd learned so much about her. She remembered that Wykoff had alluded to Jack being sent away by his family for doing unspeakable things – a fact she'd more or less already known through her profile, but knowing more about it, like the circumstances or the place he'd been sent to, would be a godsend.

Then, she remembered that he was a very fragile, sick man with not much time left. He should be allowed to live out his remaining days in tranquility, not trying to pursue one of the most heinous killers in history. A thought nagged at her: _But he had made the offer himself_. And wasn't part of the reason why she herself was still working as an agent that by helping others, she was also helping herself?

She would definitely discuss Wykoff with Melinda. She wondered what Bailey made of Wykoff's offer. She'd have to ask him, preferably before the psychic contacted her again. She didn't anticipate him giving up so easily.

* * *

><p>Two nights later, Sam paused her reading of Pablo Neruda's poetry book. She'd borrowed the literary work from Bailey last week. The poems were... certainly different from cummings'. As a result, her attention had started to wander a bit. She figured that she'd had all the poetry she could take in one night. She made a mental note of the page number and promised to herself to return to the stanzas soon.<p>

She wondered if Bailey had a insatiable appetite for poems. Could he spend an entire day in reading the genre? Well, that was probably a foregone conclusion. When he committed, he really committed, she mused with a little smile on her face.

The task force would be heading to Chicago for the training weekend in a couple of weeks. She might need to go to the gun range and practice her shooting, as repulsive as the thought was to her. She just didn't feel comfortable with guns.

The last time she'd been in Chicago... The last time they'd been in Chicago had been for the MacGruder case. Jim Henegar. It occurred to her that Bailey must have scheduled a visit on that score. She wanted to join him. She reached for the wireless phone and dialled Bailey's home number.

"Malone."

"Hey, it's me."

"Well hello, It's Me."

"Hello to you, too, Mr I Hope You're Wearing Reversible Pajamas," Sam fired back.

"Touché." She could picture his smile.

"I was just calling you to say that if you've arranged an appointment with the agent in charge of the Henegar investigation, I'd like to join you."

Bailey had indeed arranged a time to meet the Chicago liaison agent to the police department, Agent Renick. He hoped to hear good news about the investigation into the shady doings of the corrupt local cop, Jim Henegar, across whom the task force had run soon after his return from sick leave. He was touched that she wanted to come along to the meeting.

"You're more than welcome to, Sam."

"Okay, so it's a date." She still remembered how hard Bailey had taken the death of Judge Neal MacGruder at the hands of Henegar, even blaming himself for the outcome. She'd been equally outraged as him that Henegar had gotten away with his crime. Therefore, she also wanted to know if any headway had been made in bringing the crooked cop to justice.

They continued their call, discussing other topics for a while before hanging up.

"Good night, Kid."

"Good night, Rattle snake."

Angel had been lounging one the sofa, leafing through a book on children's psychology while Sam made the call to Bailey. She'd kept a close eye on her friend's expressions, and after a strikingly telling smile from Sam, she'd made up her mind to broach the topic that had been on her mind for quite some time.

"Was that Bailey you were talking to?"

Sam looked at her friend, standing near the small kitchen table. "Yeah, I invited myself along to his meeting with an agent based in Chicago," she said and walked over to the sofa. "Anything good on tv?"

"I doubt it," Angel replied, but Sam turned on the television anyway, looking for some mindless entertainment. Angel put aside her book and considered her friend for a while.

"I'm curious, is Bailey still seeing that Ellen?"

Sam shot her friend a quick glance. "No, they ended up breaking it off the night of my gala."

_Well, that does add up_, Angel thought to herself. "And he hasn't met anyone else?"

Sam gave Angel a fleeting look. "No, he hasn't. Why the sudden interest in his romantic life? You dying to fix him up with someone?"

_In a way._ "Well, he seems to spend a lot of time in your company," Angel said slowly. _And you in his_, she added silently.

Sam grew puzzled by the turn in the conversation. "What are you talking about? We've had like three dinner together. That's hardly unusual for friends who are coworkers," she remarked, shaking her head.

"So when's the last time you had John or Grace over for dinner?" Angel pointed out.

Having no real answer to that one, Sam asked point blank: "What exactly are you getting at?"

"Okay, I'll be honest: any outsider would take a look at you and think that there's something going on between you two. Now, whatever the truth, it's fine by me. I don't need to know. I just think you ought to give it some thought."

Sam had rolled her eyes at Angel's interpretation. "Fine, I'll think about it," she breathed out, making up her mind to ponder the subject for ten seconds flat.

Having gained a small victory, Angel excused herself to tend to Denzel. Sam remained on the sofa, changing the channel every so often, nothing really catching her fancy. Finally, she happened upon repeats of a sitcom, and put down the remote. She kept the volume low, since Chloe was already sleeping.

She mused the curious plea her best friend had issued her. Apparently, she needed to evaluate, label anew, her friendship with Bailey.

He was one of her best friends. Of course it stood to reason that they'd spend time together in their freetime. Much like she did with Angel. Nothing more to it.

Did he know some things about her that Angel didn't? He did, but she didn't really have any objections to revealing those things to her childhood friend. They just hadn't come up. And some topics were easier to discuss with Bailey than with Angel. Like her feelings about Jack.

Then again, she didn't tell him _everything_. Like what she'd concealed about Wykoff. She'd kept some bits of that business under wraps for a long time. She had come clean, though. And she'd felt unease about her lies.

A stray remembrance came to her: her realisation from a few weeks ago that sometimes she felt free in his company, so free that she even forgot about Jack. Maybe that warranted a little more musing.

Then, she considered the high she'd felt after he'd carried her in the staircase. That one nagged at her for a moment. What would someone else say about that one?

But she pushed those considerations aside, huffing on the inside. For the first time in ages, she felt like she was living in the present, not in the past, weighed down by the tragedies of her life, or not in the future, awaiting the day when Jack would finally have been captured and she'd maybe stop looking over her shoulder.

She felt good and light.

She actually felt her life.

Why should she have to question it? Didn't she deserve a breather?

And that was the rationale on which she pinned her growing closeness to Bailey. Like they'd both concluded some time ago, they weren't looking for anything. Or anyone. Case closed.


	14. Soundless, Boundless, I'll Surround You

(Thanks to demonchilde!)**  
><strong>

**SOUNDLESS, BOUNDLESS, I'LL SURROUND YOU**

Sam blew out a frustrated breath and leaned her head back to rest against her comfortable desk chair. She was in the middle of reviewing the ten cases John and Marcus had weaned for her inspection. She had discarded four cases completely, but something about the murder of Marie Deak of Owatonna, Mn, was off. It wasn't the work of the killer loose in Tuscaloosa, that was certain. The modus operandi and signature of the Owatonna killer were far too different.

She decided to go talk to Marcus and John about the Deak case and stretch her legs in the process. She spotted her coworkers at their joint desk and approached them.

"Hey, guys. I've been reviewing the cases that might be linked to the Tuscaloosa killer. What made you select the Marie Deak case?"

"Deak was dating a copper from Rochester at the time of her murder. The boyfriend was adamant that the chessboard found at the scene didn't belong to her. He got wind of our enquiry and sent us the case files," Marcus explained.

"Doesn't the Deak killer fit the profile?" John asked.

"No, he doesn't. The way he got access to Deak, how he killed her, doesn't match the profile."

"So where does that leave things?" John wondered.

Sam rubbed her forehead. "Beats me. Alright, thanks." She retreated back to the serenity of her office, put the radio on a classical music station and decided to chill for a while. Maybe she'd divine the connection that way. She grabbed her glass sphere and rolled the heavy object from one hand to another, letting her mind wander where it wanted.

She'd been relaxing for ten minutes when she heard a knock at the door. She smiled when she saw that the intruder was Bailey.

"Hey. You reviewing the case files John and Marcus have selected?" Bailey stepped closer to the desk and noticed she was handling her sphere. "Getting nowhere, huh?"

"Afraid so. Have a look, yourself." She placed the globe on the desk and handed the Deak case file to him. "After all, you taught me. If I come up short, it's on you," she added with a mishievous grin.

"Unassailable reasoning, right there," he quirked his eyebrow, sat down on the chair on the other side of the desk and started reading.

Minutes passed with the classical music playing softly in the background. Sam observed the man in front of her. Her thoughts flew to her brief introspection from last night. She'd qualified her relationship with Bailey as a deep, yet platonic friendship.

She knew she loved him. As a friend. Angel was simply imagining things.

She breathed deeply, her eyelids growing a bit heavier. Her gaze softened, as if she were about to fall asleep. But she didn't really feel sleepy. Her foggy vision landed on the strong fingers of Bail's left hand. For some reason, he was flicking his thumb against his index finger. The curious sight amused her.

She kept her gaze on Bailey for a couple of minutes, until he'd skimmed through the file. "Okay, I see what you mean," he remarked without looking at her. His words snapped her out of her groggy state. "But I assume the chessboard didn't belong to Deak." She replied by shaking her head.

"You've been reading up on chess. Do you have any insights you could share?" Sam asked.

"Well, it's got quite an extensive history. Its predecessor games originate from the sixth century AD. The version we play now was established in Europe in the fifteenth century. It's a game of strategy and finesse."

"Do you know how to play?"

"A little. When I was a recruit, my roommate played chess and tried to teach me. He gave up quickly." Bailey laid the case file on Sam's desk.

She thought it time to grasp at straws. "Let's try to brainstorm some more. What else can you tell me?"

"Well, let's see. The chessboard is eight by eight spaces. Each player gets sixteen pieces, eight pawns, two rooks, bishops and knights each, a queen and a king. The white player gets the first move, then the black player, then back and forth until there's a checkmate."

She considered the way the chessboards had been used in the crimes. "The thing is, the chessboards are props, but they have a very specific reason."

"But the killer doesn't make the victims participate in the game."

"No, the victims are like chess pieces..." She froze, finally starting to see why the chessboards were a part of the killer's signature. "They are the chess pieces. We're dealing with two killers, who are matching their wits in a deadly game of chess."

"Two killers? Are you sure?"

"Yes. That's why the Deak case doesn't match with the profile of the Tuscaloosa killer. Deak was murdered by the other killer."

"So you think the unsubs are killing people connected to the opponent?"

"Exactly."

"Okay. Go through the other cases John and Marcus selected, then get started on a profile for the second killer."

* * *

><p>Frances drove up the street to home when she spotted a white and pale green car again, parked a couple of houses down from the house. She gripped the driving wheel tighter, slowed down the velocity and cast a look over the view. No sign of Danny on the front yard. She figured that she'd make it safely inside if she parked quickly and hurried. No time to drive the car into the garage.<p>

Frances didn't know that Danny was stationed in the passenger seat in his car, slouching low so as to not attract unwanted attention. When he noticed Frances turning onto the driveway, he instantly opened the door and jogged across the lawns, catching up to Frances before she reached the front door. He halted her progress and turned her around with a hand on her shoulder.

She eyed him indignantly. "You got a lot of nerve, staking out a federal agent's house."

"Federal agent's house. Are you trying to scare with your big shot G-man daddy? I remember a time when you weren't so taken with daddy dearest," Danny uttered with a sleazy smile gracing his handsome face. Frances rolled her eyes and averted her gaze.

"Besides, I have fond memories of all the times I dropped you off here," the young dark-haired criminal continued.

Frances didn't rise to the bait. "Leave before I scream and someone calls the cops on your ass."

Danny looked nonplussed. "I'm shaking in my boots. I've come to collect what is mine. Cash, what you owe me," he clarified.

Frances huffed. "What I owe you? That'd be zero dollars, numb nuts."

He shook his head ominously. "I figure you owe me at least three hundred for the gas. Let's add another hundred as interest and leave it at that."

"I paid my fair share of everything, food, motels and, oh yeah, gas!" she spat out.

He didn't look too interested in squaring things off in a fair manner. "Well, let's call it car rent, then. Either way, I want my money."

"What makes you think I'm just gonna give it to you?"

"Old times' sake," Danny moved his right hand toward her, and she blocked it swiftly and took a step back. "I'm thinking that daddy doesn't know that I have his gun. Thought so," he commented snidely after Frances blanched.

"I'll find come you in a couple of days. Make sure you have my money then." He turned on his heels and headed down the street. Frances shot daggers at his back and watched him get inside his car. She then got quickly inside.

She paced the living room, waiting for her dad to arrive home. He should get home shortly. She'd tell him everything, she would have to. She wished that after this, they could finally put the shooting behind them, once and for all. No more stark reminders of the worst day of their lives.

Twenty minutes later, Bailey opened the front door to find his daughter sitting on the sofa, twitching her feet.

"Hey, sweetheart. Why is your car on the driveway? Did you lose your keys?" He turned silent when he noticed her anxious state. "What is it, what's wrong?" He closed in on her.

"Don't worry, daddy, I'm fine. But I do need to talk to you." She waited until he'd sut down on the armchair.

"You remember that when I went on the lam, I hitched a ride out of town with a guy called Danny, Danny Bohanon?" After his nod she continued: "Well, I spent the two months more or less in his company, driving up and down the south. I think he's wanted on some charge here, breaking and entering or something."

Frances drew a deep breath. "Well, he's back in Atlanta. He was waiting outside the house when I drove home."

Bailey's expression darkened to a dangerous black. "Are you okay?"

She nodded vigorously. "Yes, I'm fine. Really."

He searched his daughter's face for a while. Then he asked: "What did he want?"

"Money. Four hundred bucks. For the use of his car."

"Why does he think he can shake you down like this?"

Frances looked at her hands, ashamed of what she was about to reveal. "Because he has the gun. The one I..." her voice strangled up.

Bailey realised what she couldn't manage to say out loud. For a moment, he thought the scar was acting up again, a fleeting pain searing through his chest. He realised Frannie was talking again. "I had it with me, the whole time, but we went our separate ways after a fight, and I left the bag where it was on the backseat. That's how he got it."

He comforted his daughter. "It's alright, sweetheart. I'll ask the Atlanta pd to put an APB on him and his car. He'll be in custody in no time."

"Okay," Frances nodded her head, tears in her eyes.

"Come here." Bailey stood up and pulled Frances into a bear hug.

He would call on John to use his contacts in the local police force to shake up former accomplices of Bohanon, check out places where he could lay low while in Atlanta. For the time being, he wouldn't let Frannie out of his sight.

* * *

><p>On Saturday morning, Sam dialled the number of her former in-laws. She'd called them last week and left a message on their answering machine, but they hadn't returned her call. It seemed like she would have to be the one to reach out to them. In a way, she was pissed off. She wasn't thrilled to be the only one making in the effort in this situation. She'd had her fill of one-sided trying in the relationship with her own dad.<p>

But, she had to concede that something had broken in her relationship with Helen and Charles. Actually, two things had broken the bond. First, Tom had died, leaving a strained relationship. Second, Tom's parents had sued for Chloe's custody, and had taken their defeat hard.

Sam had never really gotten the feeling that Helen had accepted her completely. That subtle rejection had stung her, but she'd brushed it off, for she'd had Angel's mom Rose to fill the mother role in her life. However, her relationship with Charles was, or had been, different. He'd welcomed her with open arms from the get-go.

The call kept on ringing and ringing. Sam was beginning to think that she'd have to leave another message when someone picked up at the other end.

"Hello?"

The voice belonged to a woman, but it wasn't Helen's. "Emma, is that you?"

"Yeah. Sam?"

"Yes, hi! So nice to hear your voice. How are you?" Out of Tom's two sisters, Sam had always gotten along with the laid-back Emma. The older sister, wilfull Margaret, was a whole different story.

"I'm fine, thank you. Just visiting for the weekend. How's it going with you?"

"We're all good. Listen, I was just calling to ask if there are any plans for your dad's birthday. It's the big one this year, isn't it?"

"Well, yeah, there'll be a small gathering on the day here at the farm. Haven't you been invited yet?"

Sam bit her lip to keep back a tart reply. "No... Not yet."

"Well shit, you are invited, I'm inviting you on dad's behalf. I know he'd love for you and Chloe to be there."

"Okay, thanks, but I'd love to hear it from the man himself."

"I'll take care of it. Listen, both of them are just now in the stables, but I'll let them know you called. I'm sure they'll get back to you soon."

"Thanks. It was nice talking to you."

"Yeah, you too. See you in a couple of weeks."

"See you, bye."

Sam hung up, her head fuming a bit. So Helen hadn't planned on inviting them to a family celebration. She might have to give the older woman a little talking-to at one point or another. This time, it looked like her grandmother wasn't the one putting Chloe first.

* * *

><p>During Sunday night, at around 3.30 am, Bailey got a call from the police force. Danny Bohanon had been arrested on a KFC drive-in lane on the outskirts of Atlanta. A police patrol had spotted his unique-looking car and had made the arrest on the spot. A Glock had been found underneath the driver's seat. The pd would run the serial number on the gun, since the arrested suspect didn't have any documentation for the firearm.<p>

Bailey almost told them not to bother; he was sure it was his gun. He laid awake in bed after the call, restless. So now he knew what had happened to it. His Glock. He grimaced and shifted onto his other side.

He wasn't like John; he hadn't kept the bullet that had almost killed him. If he had the choice, he would have the damn gun melted down to a smoldering puddle of polymer. But, the pd would run the serial number, and then would let it gather dust in the evidence box linked to his shooting.

He wondered if he should go see it. He'd thought he'd made his peace with the events, but now this gun business was trudging up unease, quite unexepectedly.

Bailey realised that Sam was still in the dark about what had happened to him and Frances since Friday night. He decided to visit her during the day. He wanted to catch her up with everything.

He wasn't any closer to catching sleep again. He got up to get a glass of water. As he was heading to the kitchen, he spotted a light streaming from under the door in Frances' room. He tiptoed to it, opening the door slowly. The desk lamp beside the bed was still on, but Frances seemed asleep. He turned off the lamp, which woke up his daughter, who'd been sleeping on the covers.

She sprang up quickly, the book she'd been reading before falling asleep sliding to the floor in a loud thump. "Whuh?"

"Shh, it's okay, Frannie, it's me." He turned the lamp on again.

"Dad?" Frances rubbed her sleepy eyes.

"Yeah. You'd left the light on. I came in to turn it off."

"Um. Okay. Why are you up?"

"I got up to drink some water." He decided to inform her of Bohanon's arrest. Put her mind at ease. "A call from the police woke me up. Bohanon was arrested a few hours ago."

Frances sat up on the bed. "Really?"

"Yeah, he's in custody as we speak. We won't be seeing him for a long time."

"And... the gun?"

He took pains to reply instantly. "They found it in the car."

She let her eyes fall down to gaze at the bed cover. She stroked it gently, gathering her courage. "What's going to happen to it?"

"It's gonna go into the evidence box," he told her gently.

She digested the news, then sighed deeply. "Oh, okay. Good, I guess?" Frances was unsure how to react at the moment.

He smiled at his daughter. "Good, sweetheart. Let's go back to bed, both of us."

* * *

><p>"Bail, what are you doing here?" Sam greeted her unexpected guest with a kiss on the corner of his mouth.<p>

"Just took a chance. I'm not interrupting, am I?" He knew he was making an unannounced visit.

"No, I was just fixing myself something to eat. Angel and Chloe went to buy some pet food for Denzel. Come on in."

"Thanks." Sam retreated to the kitchen. He took of his black leather jacket and hung it on the frame of one of the dining table chairs. Then, he joined his friend in the kitchen.

"So, what's up? Can I get you something?"

"No, I'm good." He'd been planning on going on a long ride on his Harley, to clear his head, then bring Sam up-to-date about everything. But somehow he'd ended up straight at her doorstep, before the ride.

"I actually came here to tell you something."

His grave tone of voice had her stopping her task at the kitchen counter and turning to face to him.

"What?" She gazed at him, worry in her eyes. He sat down at the round kitchen table.

"Well, long story short: on Friday, the guy Frances was on the lam with, showed up at our house to extort some money out of her. His leverage was... the gun she'd used," Bailey hedged. "He had it in his possession. I put an APB on him, and he was arrested last night."

"Friday? You say this started on Friday?" she applied special emphasis on the day of the week. "Any reason you didn't tell me right away?"

"I don't know. I guess I didn't want to worry you."

So, he'd decided go at it alone, like he always did. He didn't apparently know that the shooting hadn't happened to him alone; it had also happened to her. "Well, I would have liked to have known," she chided him gently, letting go of the impulse to ream him a bit.

"How are you feeling?" She sat down beside him.

He didn't have an answer to that one. "I have no idea. You would think that knowing where the gun is would give me a sense of closure. That isn't out there in the world, wreaking havoc on someone else's life. But..."

"Sometimes closure isn't that obvious. Let me ask you something. When Frances first brought up the gun, did something happen?" She observed him closely.

How could she know that? "I thought I could feel the shot all over again." She covered his left hand with her right one.

"But you didn't feel like that when you told me, right? The impact had faded?" He nodded silently.

"There, you see." He didn't look too comforted, prompting her to prod further.

"What about nightmares? Did you have those?"

"Maybe. I did sleep restlessly," he added to his reply.

"If you have any more, ones you remember, you can always call me, night or day."

"Thanks."

She suspected that despite her offer, he wouldn't trouble her in the end. She wanted to drive home her point. "You do realize that the shooting didn't happen to just you, don't you?"

She saw his moment of realization. He didn't utter a word, but raised her hand to his lips, kissing the back of her hand gently.

* * *

><p>On Monday afternoon, Sam, Bailey and George were sitting in the command center. The resident computer whiz had had a few weeks to comb through thousands of bytes of data, looking for suspicious occurrences of the name Jack and variations thereof, coupled with last names associated with Sam.<p>

"I have preliminary results. I prioritized the names in running the algorithm, giving a higher value to a combination like Jack Waters than a name like John Lawson. The algorithm also took into account significant dates in the investigation, such as dates of his kills, messages he's sent to Sam and so forth."

"What did you find?" Bailey was impatient to get to the point.

"No hits on tax records or hospital patients. I'm still combing through the DMV and the records of the criminal system. Any tips on how to prioritize those?"

"Look for petty stuff, like parking tickets. Jack's kept a tight leash on his actions so far. Nothing indicates that he's messed up even in the slightest," Sam pointed out.

"But he isn't infallible. He has been on the run a few times now. If nothing comes up otherwise, focus on those time periods," Bailey advised George.

"You mean the time when he escaped from the convent and the time Sam shot him?"

"Exactly. Those times, he was improvising and fast. He might have left a trail somewhere."

"The post office box lease in Sandy Springs expires tomorrow," George reminded his boss and the profiler. "An agent from the Columbia field office has a court order at the ready. He'll stake out the place for one more day and then confiscate any items in the box."

"A lot of good that'll do us. There's probably only Samson's last letter there," Sam sighed.

"Still, it'll be good to have it in our possession. See if it squares with what she's told us," Bailey commented. "Thanks, Georgie. Good job."

* * *

><p>On Tuesday night, the phone call Sam had been waiting for finally came in. When the phone rang, she abandoned cummings' poetry collection which she'd started to read again to find a particular stanza that was stuck in her mind.<p>

"Hello?"

"Hello Sam, it's Helen." Sam's former mother-in-law's voice sounded a little strained.

"Hi Helen, how are you?" Sam asked out of pure courtesy, being careful not to let her pissed off state of mind seep into her own voice.

"Thank you, we're all doing good. How about you?"

"Just fine. Emma told you I'd called, did she?"

"Yes, she did. Of course you're welcome to attend Charles' party. I just figured that with that job of yours, you might not be able to make it." Sam gritted her teeth at Helen's poor excuse.

"I'm on holiday that week and we don't have any special plans. While we're up there, we could discuss Chloe spending a week or two at your place during her summer break," Sam suggested magnanimously. "I know she'd love it."

"That would be very nice, Sam," the older woman replied graciously.

Having broken the ice, Sam got to down to business. "So, when is the big party, then?"

"It'll be on June 14, here at the farm."

"Okay. What about gifts, is there something you're all getting?"

"No, Charles doesn't want anything. If you insist on getting something, make it small."

"Will do. Would you like to talk to Chlo?"

"Of course."

"I'll get her on the phone then. See you in a couple of weeks. Bye." Sam laid the handset on the table and walked to get her daughter on the phone.

As Chloe chatted with her grandmother, Sam started thinking about a present for Charles. She came up with and discarded several ideas before remembering that she probably still have some negatives from Tom's college graduation. She should go through those and see if there was a photo worth developing and giving to Charles.

Angel emerged from her room to plop down onto the sofa, armed with one of her favorite books: Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day. It occurred to Sam that she hadn't asked from Helen whether Angel was invited or not.

"Angel, I just made plans to go up to Richmond for Charles' 60th birthday in a couple of weeks. Do you want to tag along?"

Angel took a moment to consider the offer, then shook her head. "Nah, not really. You don't mind, do you?"

"No, of course not. They're my in-laws, not yours," Sam responded in a breezy but hushed tone, taking care that Chloe not hear her.

While she loved Sam like a sister and had thought the world of Tom, there was no denying that Angel plainly disliked the elder Waterses. She had never made her opinions known, but she avoided them whenever she could, and when that wasn't in the cards, she was determined to kill Helen with kindness.

Charles treated her with respect, but Helen would always manage to make a little racist dig at her. So no, she wasn't keen on spending an evening in the woman's company.

* * *

><p>Sam seated herself on Melinda's comfortable, plush leather chair. This time, the session was taking place at Melinda's home office. The red-haired woman had worked from home for a week, putting the finishing touches on an article she planned to publish in a psychology journal. Melinda was sipping tea, but Sam had declined her offer of a beverage.<p>

"How have you been since we last spoke?"

"I've been good. I've started exercising, that's a change for me," she chuckled out loud. "I converted a closet at the house into a dark room. I've been taking more photos as a result. Of Angel's sculptures, my friends. No landscapes so far," she made a gesture with her head to the direction of Melinda's living room, where an enlarged photograph by Sam was hanging.

Melinda smiled mildly. "What about work?"

"We're making some progress with Jack's case. We're now waiting to see how much of it pans out."

"Have you met Lesher again?"

"Yes, I interrogated her. And," she continued before Melinda had the chance to ask herself, "she didn't reveal anything horrific. That was a relief."

"So, what else is new?"

"Ah... This man I met during an investigation last year contacted me. You're gonna laugh," Sam added pre-emptively, thinking that Melinda, like Bail, would discount Wykoff's gift right off the bat.

"Why do you say that?"

"He claims to be psychic. Empathic, actually. And I believe him," she asserted in a firm tone.

Melinda's face didn't reveal what she thought, one way or another. "You said he contacted you. Why?"

Sam took a beat, her gaze shifting down to her hands. "Well, the reason I believe him is because he held my hand for a while. He could tell that I used to play all kinds of puzzles with my mom. He also knew about Jack. He wants to help in catching him."

"I see."

"We, I mean, I met him in connection to a murder investigation. Elliot's, he's the psychic, Elliot's friend was killing people connected to murders he couldn't help solve. Elliot was his ultimate target."

"But he's still alive," Melinda remarked with a questioning tone.

"Yeah, we caught the killer in time. Not before Elliot's wife was murdered, though. When Elliot realized who'd killed his beloved wife, he slipped into a non-pathological catatonia. I was there when it happened," she added.

"Oh my."

Sam nodded her head repeatedly. "He fell into the abyss," she remarked in a tiny voice.

"The abyss?"

"A depository of all human evil. That's where Elliot believed he was headed. His last manuscript had countless drawings of it."

After a moment, Melinda pointed out: "You seem to recall a lot about this man."

"Like I said, he contacted me. That got me thinking about him again."

Melinda gave Sam an evaluating look. "That's it? That's the extent of your connection to him?"

"To be honest, I was very stressed out during that period of time. Bailey would say that I came very close to a burnout."

"Oh?"

"I was losing things, having trouble profiling, snapping at my coworkers," she revealed to Melinda.

"I once suggested quitting to you. Did you consider leaving the Bureau during that time?"

Sam was silent for a while, thinking back to the events. "A friend quit the FBI at that time. He later came back, but anyway, he also said that I should quit, that I'd seen too much."

"But you didn't quit."

"It was never an option," Sam stated resolutely.

"And you didn't burn out. How did you avoid it?"

Sam got to pondering why she hadn't burnt out all those months ago. The thing she remembered the best was Bailey's unrelenting presence. "I guess Bailey helped me through. He didn't really do anything, but... He was just there."

"Ready to make sure that you didn't fall into the abyss?"

"Yeah."

Silence spanned for a while as Sam thought about Bail but didn't give voice to the workings of her mind. Finally, Melinda picked up the subject again.

"So what do you think about this Elliot's offer?"

"I neglected to tell you that Elliot has a degenerative heart condition. He has about a year to live. Obviously, that makes the situation even more fraught," Sam bit her lip.

"I understand."

"A part of me wants to decline and let Elliot live out his remaining days in peace. He once said that he's died a hundred deaths. How can I impose any further suffering on him?"

"And the other part?" Melinda prodded.

"Wants to jump at his offer. I want to know everything, anything, that might lead to Jack's capture," Sam sighed and ran her hands through her hair.

"Have you considered that your conflicted feelings may be caused, in part, by your identifying with him?"

"I haven't wanted to consider that," she confessed.

"You're going to have to. The similarities are there. Both of you have had loved ones killed by someone who thinks he's acting for your good. You both have a gift that is sometimes a burden, and you both feel compelled to help people to the best of your ability. At the time when you came close to a burnout, he fell into catatonia."

The similarities seemed stark even to Sam herself, and yet, she didn't utter a word.

"You can't ignore that, Sam. Promise me you won't."

Sam tilted her head slightly, signaling her intent to listen to Melinda's advice.

* * *

><p>Sam poked her head into Bailey's office at the end of the day on Thursday. "Hey you, going home any time soon?" she asked, observing the high pile of case files he seemed to be wading through.<p>

"I'm giving this another hour, then calling it a day," he made easy of his long work hours.

"Make it half an hour."

"45 minutes."

"I can live with that," she smirked, making her way into his office. "What are you working on, anyway? Are we getting another active case?"

"No. I've been actually meaning to tell you... I asked the Atlanta pd and the district attorney's office to send me information about the cases Wykoff worked on."

Her eyebrows shot sky high. "Really?" She approached the armchair stationed in front of his desk. "To see how the evidence he helped find held up in court?"

"Yes."

"And?" She sat down on the chair.

"The evidence held up fine. There were one or two cases that didn't secure a conviction, but that may have been down to other factors."

Sam pondered his reply. "Are you saying that you might be open to Wykoff helping us?"

"I don't know about that, Sam. From what you told me, he's very sick. And he seemed fragile during the investigation over a year ago. I wouldn't want to compound his suffering."

"Yeah," she breathed out. "He's been on my mind a lot. I talked about him to Melinda yesterday."

"What do you think? About Wykoff?"

"I'm still no closer to knowing," she sighed and let her hands dangle over the arm of the chair. She'd tried to sort out her feelings before going to sleep last night, at Melinda's behest, but had gotten nowhere. She might have to go and visit the empath again before she could arrive at any decision.

Her thoughts turned to the man in her presence. He hadn't told her any news about Bohanon, even though she was sure he was keeping a close eye on the case. He'd left soon on Sunday for his ride; he'd declined her offer to make him something to eat, professing that he needed some time to clear his thoughts.

"What's going on with Bohanon?"

Her frank question didn't surprise him. She would know that he was keeping tabs on that. "He's in custody, awaiting trial. He didn't make bail."

"That must be a relief for Frances. How is she doing?"

"Frannie seems fine. She's a trooper."

"She's a chip off the old block. But how about you? Any nightmares you might have forgotten to share with me?" she bestowed a meaningful look upon him.

"I haven't had any." She shot a challenging gaze at him. "Scout's honor," he attested.

She observed him for a moment, then was satisfied that he was telling the truth. "Somehow, I can't quite see you as a boy scout," she grinned at him and stood up. "Would a boy scout throw rocks at an old man's house?"

"I plead the fifth," he shot back.

"No use in pleading the fifth after you've shared your criminal youth," she teased him. Then, she checked her wrist watch. "You're on the clock, Malone. 36 minutes, then you go straight home," she quipped and headed for the door.

"I think your watch is a little fast, Kid."

She smiled to herself but didn't stay to quibble with him. "Good night," she wished him from the door of his office.

"Night."

* * *

><p>Chloe was sitting at the kitchen table, munching on her snack before bedtime: grilled cheese and carrots. She was leafing through one of her many animal books. This one focused on the young of the animals.<p>

"Mom, did you know that some animal babies are called whelps, yearlings, joeys and kids?"

"I knew some of those, honey. Which one's a kid?" Sam enquired, filling the dishwasher.

"A baby goat!"

"Really?" Sam laughed out loud.

Chloe stopped reading her book. "What are you laughing at, mom?"

"Not at you, sweetie. I was laughing at kid. Uncle Bailey calls me that." She was surprised that Chloe didn't know that already.

Chloe looked positively puzzled. "Why does Uncle Bailey call you that?"

"It's his nick name for me," Sam stated, offering no further explanation. She set the dishwasher to wash a fast cycle, then grabbed a cloth and started wiping the counter tops clean.

"But why kid? You're not a goat," Chloe insisted.

"No, that I'm not. I guess... He calls me that because I'm younger than he is."

Chloe scrunched her face. "How much younger are you?"

"Eleven years, give or take."

"Shouldn't he call me kid? I'm a lot younger than you," the little girl pointed out.

"Well, he came up with his nick name before you were even born, and old habits die hard."

Angel had been stretching in the play area adjacent to the kitchen, and she'd heard the discussion between mother and daughter. She walked to the kitchen to fill up her glass of water.

Chloe thought about the canine in the house. "Angel, have you had Denzel since he was a pup?"

"Uh huh. He was just eight weeks old when I got him. He was the tiniest thing I'd ever seen. Before you, I should say. You were the teensiest little baby," Angel leant down to tickle Chloe's right side, making the little girl laugh.

"I'm gonna go watch pictures of Bourbon. Grandma sent some new ones today," Chloe announced.

"No, Chloe, it's too late for that. You can look at them tomorrow. What do you say we play some Candyland?"

The little girl's face lit up. "Angel, too?"

"Sure, why not. It's been a while," Angel agreed.

"Cool! I'll go set up the game," Chloe announced and dashed off to the living room, where they usually played.

Angel watched Sam finish wiping the kitchen counters clean. Now that Chloe wasn't around, she couldn't resist commenting: "You know, you hear 'kid' a lot in Humphrey Bogart movies."

"Bail does have an old-fashioned air about him," she smiled. He even wore a hat some days, just like men in the forties and fifties used to.

"In the movies, Bogie uses that nick name for his leading ladies. Just sayin'," Angel finished and held her hands up in the air to excuse her point.

Sam rolled her eyes and remembered something she'd once heard in a quiz on television. "Bogie only said that in Casablanca. One film, that's it."

"And he said goodbye to Lauren Bacall with 'kid'. At least that's what I've heard," her friend added.

"Fine," Sam sighed, rinsed the and left it to air dry on the faucet. Sam hadn't divulged her conclusions about her friendship with Bailey to Angel. True to her word, her friend hadn't even mentioned the topic again, before her "kid" remarks. It was starting to seem like Angel had already drawn her own conclusions, and Sam doubted that she'd be able to make her friend change her mind. Still, she wanted to see an end to any oblique remarks in the future.

She looked Angel square in the eyes. "I'll have you know that I did what you suggested. I thought about it, and I concluded that Bailey and I are just friends. Happy now?"

Angel stared at Sam for a moment, contemplating her friend's words. She stopped herself from disagreeing and insisting to Sam that she was in the wrong. Angel was pretty sure where her friend was headed, but for whatever reason, Sam herself was oblivious to it. Maybe she really didn't see it, maybe she refused to see it. Angel let the matter go. Sam would come face to face with it sooner or later.

Angel nudged Sam. "Come on, Candyland awaits."

Before the game got under way, Sam decided to bring up this kid business with Bail at an opportune moment. See if she could ruffle his feathers a little. That would be fun.


	15. Send Me an Angel to Love

(Thanking demonchilde once again...)**  
><strong>

**SEND ME AN ANGEL TO LOVE**

Jack was readying his bag for his sojourn to Chicago. He would catch a bus there and back, and whilst in the city, he'd rent a car from a dingy rental shop. It was the best way to travel incognito. His choice meant that he'd be leaving Sam to her own devices for a few days, but it would be worth it. In the mean time, he would surround himself with some select items of memorabilia of their journey together.

As of late, he'd felt quite drawn to a few pieces from his early days with her. Back when she hadn't realised how intertwined their lives would become. To be fair, he hadn't been accomplished back then; he didn't blame her for brushing him off. Since then, when their paths crossed again, he'd made sure that he'd earn her admiration and undivided attention.

Sometimes he marveled at fate's whims, really. Then, he counted his blessings and thanked fate. So many little details that she was still oblivious to. He could hardly wait to tell her, to amaze her with his devotion.

Jack poured himself a flute of champagne, sat in front of his favourite photo of her (a close-up of her exquisite face) and toasted to it. He mused, for a while, their first ever encounter, still feeling the thrill of it. It had been love at first sight, even though he'd given up on it for a few years. That had been his misfortune.

She had shown him in, and in a mistake, had called him Jack. He hadn't minded; he'd been too taken with her beauty. He'd only had four sessions with her; he'd scared her off with an ill-advised present. He'd had more pressing matters to deal with, and so he'd acquiesced, gone off without a fight. To come across her years later... Well, that had to be fate.

That's why he was taking his time to woo her now. He wouldn't scare her off this time. First, personal messages. Second, gifts such as roses. Third, killing people from her past, to show her how well he knew her, how close an attention he was paying to every facet of her life.

She would be his. He knew it.

Jack grabbed a rabbit's foot situated next to the photo frame of his beloved, stroked it fondly, and placed it carefully on top of his clothes before zipping up his duffel bag. Chicago beckoned.


	16. We're Making Such a Mess

(I own nothing. Again, thanks to demonchilde!)**  
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**WE'RE MAKING SUCH A MESS **

Sam stifled a yawn as she waited for John to come pick up her at the crack of dawn. The sun was rising on her left. The streets outside the fire station house were empty; only a few vehicles had passed while she waited for her ride. They would fly to Chicago on the Bureau's own plane. They wouldn't be served any salted peanuts or small drinks on the flight, but at least they could skip the security checks.

Sam's eyes shuttered shut, and she took a deep breath, willing herself to remain awake. She began to side step a little to keep sharp. In two days, she would be on vacation for two weeks. She'd managed to finish the profile of the Deak killer yesterday. She wondered what would happen in fortnight's time in the task force. Anything could happen, but she knew Bailey would keep her apprised of any major developments.

She wondered if, not when, he would have his vacation. She should probably encourage him to take a week off, to spend with Frances. Sit on his laurels for a while. She almost snickered; Bail wasn't good at that sort of thing.

Sam looked down the street and spotted a GMC driving toward her. That would be John. She picked up her bag and said goodbye to Chloe, Angel and Denzel in her head. She'd already said bye to them last night. There was no need for them to get up obscenely early to say farewell to her over a two-day training weekend.

John popped the trunk and Sam threw her bag in there before climbing to the back seat and saying hello to Washington. They would go pick up Marcus and then head to the airport. Bailey was in charge of picking up Grace and George.

* * *

><p>Sam and company arrived at the small airport to find most of the agents already boarded. They left their luggage with the crew and proceeded to the plane. Sam smiled good morning to Grace and Geroge, sitting next to one another, and, without preamble, plopped herself next to Bailey who was sitting on the other side of the aisle.<p>

"Hey Bail," she said warmly.

"Morning, Sam," he returned her smile. "You want to sit next to the window?"

"Nah, I'll sit by the window on the flight back," she yawned, then frowned when she spied some files on Bailey's lap.

"Don't fret, I'm only reviewing MacGruder's case," he whispered, wanting to keep the matter between them.

"When are meeting Renick?" Sam murmured.

"On Sunday morning, before the ftx." She nodded, then looked back over the seats when she heard an explosion of laughter behind them. Marcus, John, Washington and several other agents were cracking up about something. Boys and their games.

With that thought, it occurred to Sam that she should try to get back at John and Marcus for their relentless teasing of her from weeks ago. "Are John and Marcus roommates?" she asked from Bailey, who she knew had been informed of the arrangements at the hotel.

He raised his gaze from the files. "John and Marcus? Don't you want to know who you're bunking with?"

"No, why? Is it you?" she asked cheekily.

"Brace yourself: sadly, it isn't," he quipped.

Sam let out a theatrical sigh of disappointment. "I'm crushed. Then it's gotta be Grace. So, John and Marcus?"

"They are sharing the room. Why do you ask?" He leveled a curious look at her.

"Oh, no reason," she brushed off his question, suddenly taking an inordinate interest in the safety features flyer in the pocket of the seat in front of her.

She smiled when she sensed Bailey leaning in to whisper: "Remember that I can't put 'rock-star behaviour in a hotel room' down in the expenses sheet I send."

She turned her head to see Bailey's close-by eyes dancing with mirth. "Please, give me more credit. My payback will be far more subtle. Wait and see."

He raised his eyebrows. She said under her breath: "Really, you're literally going to have to wait and see. I have no idea yet what I'm doing."

Bailey's laughter boomed throughout the plane.

* * *

><p>Grace had the honour of entering first into the room she and Sam would share for the next day and a half. It was comfortable enough, but nothing plush. Two separate queen-sized beds separated by a night stand in the middle of the room. Beside each bed was a wingback arm chair. On the wall opposite to the beds was a small desk with a chair. Television was next to it in the far-off corner. The balcony looked to be a decent size.<p>

"Ah, home, sweet home. Which bed do you want?" Grace asked from Sam who trailed her. Sam had remained behind to spy which room John and Marcus would head into. They were three doors up and on the opposing side. Bailey and George were down from them, five doors it looked.

"I don't really care." Sam's eyes skirted around the premises, taking in the relatively nice room.

"I'll take the bed next to the balcony, then," Grace decided and parked her trolley at the foot of her bed.

Sam threw her bag beside her bed and collapsed onto it, yawning: "How much time before the first workshop?" She was feeling more tired than usual. Some of it was the early wake-up call, some of it was the plane ride. She always tried to sleep on flights lasting more than an hour: otherwise, she'd get a head ache. She'd slept in fits during the two-hour-and-change flight, as turbulence had impeded on her slumber.

"Uh, twenty minutes. I think Bailey said ten o'clock. Which one is it, again?"

"The rules and regs, I think. Whoop-de-doo," Sam said sarcastically.

"Isn't lunch after that one?"

Sam watched as her friend, almost annoyingly efficient, had already started unpacking her clothes. "Yes, thank goodness. Then, something to do with firearms, an hour of brushing up our first aid skills, a workshop on self-defense and how to handle oneself physically on the job, and then, it's a night of painting the town red."

Then, it occurred to Sam that her friend might not take part in the same work shops.

"What do you have in store? I assume you won't be hearing about the remarkable strides in Glock design."

"I'm attending a workshop on blood spatter analysis, then one centered on blunt trauma objects."

Sam forced her eyes open and shot up from the bed. No use in letting herself get drowsy before the day even officially began. "Are you about done, roomie? I need to buy a chocolate bar before listening to a monologue about the rules of the Bureau."

Grace smiled, knowing Sam's chocolate habit. "Jonesing already? Sure, let's go get you your fix."

* * *

><p>Sam stretched her legs underneath the seat in front of her, stifling yet another yawn. The topic of the workshop was mildly interesting, but the early wake-up call was catching up to her. The quiet hum of the air conditioning wasn't helping matters, either. She shook her head and sat up straight, determined to keep awake. The instructor was droning on about the rules and regulations that had been changed in recent years. Her mind wandered, since Bailey had done a good job of keeping his agents up-to-date.<p>

She decided to stay awake by beginning to plot her payback. She knew she wanted to do something connected to the room her colleagues were staying in, but she hadn't come up with anything good yet. She'd thought about ordering a wake-up call for them at 3.30 am from the hotel reception, but she'd discarded the idea as too lame. She needed something insidious, something that the guys would see and know instantly that she was behind it all.

She was unaware that she'd closed her eyes again, and her head was about to droop a little. However, Bailey, sitting behind her, had noticed her lack of focus earlier on, and he'd stepped out of the room to remedy the situation. He'd actually been keeping an eye on her, having guessed that sitting still in a quiet space would prove challenging to his friend. She'd nodded off a few times on the flight, her head even lolling to the side to rest on his shoulder at one point, but the flight had been bumpy, and so she hadn't gotten the rest she wanted.

Sam opened her eyes and jerked a little when she felt a finger poking her right shoulder. She turned around to notice a steaming cup of coffee less than ten inches away from her shoulder. Her eyes traveled beyond the cup and took in a familiar silver bracelet. She smiled at the sight, and her gaze met Bailey's amused one. She grabbed the cup gingerly and mouthed "thank you" to him silently. He just shook his head in delighted disbelief.

She sipped the black liquid and almost hummed when she tasted the aroma. Good coffee. She would make it through this workshop.

Maybe she should ask for Bailey's help in brainstorming a suitable payback. After all, by bringing her coffee he was now a co-conspirator, albeit an unwitting one.

* * *

><p>Sam peered ahead of Bailey, trying to see the lunch dish selection in the hotel restaurant. Having no luck, she took another look at the salad bar in front of her, weighing the pros and cons of a salad lunch. Bailey was about to proceed without any salad on his plate, so she grabbed hold of his sleeve, detained him and placed a hefty mound of salad leaves on his place with a flourish.<p>

As he made a face at her, she asked innocently: "You want tomato with that? And no, ketchup is not tomato," she added, cutting off his pointed remark. "Fine, give me some tomato," he grunted, turning his face to hide his amusement at how well she knew him.

He waited graciously for her to put some cucumber on his plate and then advanced to the warm dish section of the lunch line. When she caught up with him, he filled her in on what the choices were: "We have pork stew, halibut and good ol' mac and cheese."

Sam let out an enthused sound. "I'm going for the mac and cheese. Haven't had that in ages."

"You know what, I think I'll join you. I bet it pales in comparison to yours."

"Thanks for that, but I believe we both know who boasts the culinary skills in this partnership," Sam uttered and ladled a significantly smaller portion than Bailey's onto her place. Now was his time to tut her.

"What? I'm just thinking ahead. All those workshops still to come. A very full stomach might induce me into a coma." He conceded that she had a point and put away the spoon.

"Thanks for the coffee run, by the way," she smiled at him.

"My pleasure. I can't have my team profiler dozing off in plain sight." They advanced to the desserts, where Sam inspected chocolate pudding and creme brulee closely.

"Coffee did the trick. I stayed awake for the remainder of the workshop. Although a part of it was me hatching a plan for the guys."

"Any progress from this morning?" Bailey decided to forego dessert, whilst Sam opted for the chocolate pudding.

"No, unfortunately. You have any ideas? C'mon, by getting me that coffee you became my co-conspirator," she informed him when he shot a questioning look at her.

"You'd have your boss conspiring with you? What if it gets me into hot water?"

"Then just blame me and my feminine wiles." He gave her a put-upon look. They reached the cash register and paid for their lunch in silence. They scoured the dining hall and secured a nearby table for six that was empty.

"Maybe I don't have what it takes to be a prankster," she sighed, sitting opposite to her friend.

"You just need the right inspiration, that's all. I see you excelling at psyching out someone rather than doing practical jokes, anyway," he commented, his mind flying to the time she'd misled him by pretending not to know what huddles were.

A delighted smile blossomed on her face. "Psyching someone out? I'll take that. Bon apétit."

* * *

><p>The official business finally over for the day, Grace observed the swimming pool 22 storeys below them. The air was balmy, but only a few kids were splashing around the rectangular pool. She made up her mind to go for a brief swim. It would be nice to swim laps without having to worry about Jason. Good thing she'd had the foresight to pack a swimsuit.<p>

As Sam stepped out of the shower and reached for her towel, she heard Grace yelling through the bathroom door. "Sam, I'm going for a swim in the pool! Can you give me a towel?" She tied her towel around her and opened the door, then reached for the spare towel hanging on the drying bars. "Here you go. Do you want to use the shower?"

"Nah, I'll use the one next to the pool."

"Okay, see you in a while. Have fun."

"Will do," Grace remarked and disappeared into the hallway.

Sam stepped out of the bathroom in her white robe, drying her hair with her towel. A light breeze hit her feet, and she noticed that Grace had left the sliding balcony door slightly ajar. She walked over there to close the door. She reached for the handle which was partially shrouded by the curtain, in the process juggling the curtain a little.

She jumped almost three feet when she heard a loud buzzing near her. She backed away quickly out of fright and scanned the area around her and the balcony door. Sure enough, a hornet appeared from under the curtain. She backed away further, keeping a close eye on the flying insect and grabbing her cell phone from the desk on her right. She hit the speed dial button on her phone, praying for a quick answer.

She heard his familiar voice on the other end. "Malone."

"Hi, it's me. Can you come to my room, right now?" she rattled off, keeping her voice down so as to not pique the hornet's interest.

"Why? What's wrong?" Her tone of voice alarmed him.

"I need your help. Where are you, how soon can you get here?"

"I'm in my room, I'll be there in less than thirty seconds."

"Come quickly," she hissed and hung up. The hornet was still buzzing at the glass balcony door, trying to find a way outside. Sam put her phone in the pocket of her robe, then took a few steps and grabbed a thin hotel brochure which she rolled up to use against the flying monster, should it get closer to her. She backed down to the door leading to the hallway and counted down the seconds until Bailey arrived.

When she'd gotten to twenty five when she heard a knock on the door. She flew it open and breathed out: "Thank God!"

Bailey took one look at her and could she see that she was truly rattled by something. "Sam, what's happened? Is Chloe okay?"

He heard a buzzing sound and Sam nearly jumped out of her skin, then pulled him into the room and closed the door. She grabbed his hands and shot a terrified look out into the room at large. "There's a hornet at the balcony door," she muttered in a horror-stricken voice.

"What? A hornet?" he repeated.

She nodded her head vehemently. "Yes. Kill it, quickly," she pleaded him and turned him to face the balcony door, walking cautiously behind him.

He took a few steps and spied the offending insect flying in front of the glass door. He looked back at Sam, wondering if she really was terrified of the creature. He concluded that there was no faking that level of panic.

He looked around the room for something to use for chasing the hornet away, like a magazine. A towel lay in heap on the floor near the foot of the bed closest to the balcony. On the other bed, closer to him, were clothes. A purple dress, pantyhose and... black lingerie. He averted his gaze instantly, looking at the desk.

He noticed a case file folder, which he took and then walked to the door. Sam lingered back. The hornet had calmed down some, not trying to pervade the window pane of the door. He started gently coaxing the hornet with the folder, trying to lead it to the open air.

He heard her gasp. "What are you doing? I said kill it!"

"Relax, Kid." No sooner had he said so that the hornet retaliated and took a short flight across the room, its path taking it to the roof and milling around the center of the room. Sam hitched her breath, backed away from the impending threat by taking to the wall and walking over the beds to seek safety from Bailey's proximity. "Don't Kid me, Malone. Just kill the damn thing!" she urged him. She let out a small yelp when the hornet changed course in the air and headed back to the balcony door, directly at them.

They moved to the right in unison, out of the hornet's way. They waited until the hornet had finished its attempts at flying through the glass panel again and had started walking on it. Then, Bailey approached it with the rolled-up brochure from Sam, and with one fell blow, nailed it to the balcony door, leaving a black and red smudge on the otherwise spotless glass.

Sam slumped to the arm chair behind her and took a deep breath, her small adrenaline rush over. "Thank you."

He looked at her, wondering about her panic. "You're welcome. You okay?" He knelt down to pick up the towel, which he guessed Sam had dropped in her panic. He closed the balcony door.

"I am now," she smiled gratefully at him.

"I didn't know you were scared of hornets," he remarked and handed her the towel.

She ran her fingers through her towel-dry hair. "Well, I am. And wasps and bees. I can cope with bumblebees. Just about," she suppressed a shudder.

"Just out of curiosity, what do you do if you get a bee at home?"

Sam shrugged her shoulders. "Angel's always around. Or Denzel."

"I thought dogs are allergic to bees."

"He provides moral support."

The idea of Sam relying on a dog for a sense of security from a flying insect was so comical that he had to shake his head and smile a little. "Well, I think you're safe now. Shall I?" He gestured at the dead hornet laying on the floor. She nodded her head and said: "Please."

He used the brochure to scoop up the little carcass and put them both in the trash bin underneath the desk. As he turned around to look at her, his eyes closed in on the clothes on the bed for the briefest of seconds. Something to think about. Or ignore completely. He couldn't make up his mind.

Sam averted her gaze from Bailey just as he turned to her.

"I'm gonna leave you to it. Dinner's in an hour. See you then?"

She shot up from the arm chair, tightened the belt of her robe and walked him to the door. "Yeah. Thanks, Bail."

He cocked his head to the right a little, as if to say 'sure', and walked out of her room. She closed the door behind him, then headed to the bathroom, pausing for a while next to the desk and listening intently. She couldn't hear a buzzing or any sign of life from the trash bin. The fiend was well and truly dead. Thank God Bailey had come to her rescue.

She started shaking her curls out with her hands, judging whether or not she still needed the towel. Her hair was already pretty dry, so she hung the towel to dry and started combing her locks. A small thrill of excitement made her smile when she thought back on how Bail had behaved when he'd spotted her clothes on the bed. Now, that was a fun, little reaction.

For his part, Bailey strode into the room he shared with George, playing the scene again in his mind. Sam's frantic call, her overwhelming distress at the intruder, her demands, fleeing to safety over the beds. He chuckled silently, but his laughter died when the sight of the items on the bed invaded his thoughts again.

Now, he was fully aware that his friend was an exceptionally stunning woman. He also knew that, as a woman, she probably possessed numerous pairs of black lingerie. But there was a difference in knowing and _knowing_.

Thank goodness George was in their room to ask questions about his quick departure. He decided to own up the reason for Sam's call. George wouldn't abuse the knowledge.

He hopped in the shower himself, made it a brief one and started dressing for the night. His usual black suit and crisp, white dress shirt. For a twist, he chose to put on his purple tie.

* * *

><p>Sam exited the ladies' room and stepped to the side to make room for two women making a beeline there, apparently too anxious to powder their noses to pay heed to common courtesy. She shook her head in silent annoyance, but her irritation dissipated when she set her eyes on their table, seeing her coworkers sharing a laugh. She proceeded there swiftly, unaware of the admiring looks she was drawing from the male patrons of the restaurant. Her hair shone under the dimmed lights, and her purple dress, despite not showing any skin, was sensual in its restrained elegance.<p>

Bailey either sensed her approach or caught it out of the corner of his eye, for he turned his head as she was half way to the table. They locked eyes and smiled to one another, just basking in the glow of shared enjoyment.

When she was eight feet from their table, a drunk woman from the table next to them stood up abruptly, knocking over her chair in the process. The offending chair made contact with the back of Sam's left knee, sending her toppling to the right. She would have splatted down on the floor, had Bailey not shot up and caught her by the waistline. She grabbed his shoulder and steadied herself, using him as leverage. She gave him a grateful smile before shooting a marked look at the back of the woman, now heading outside.

"You okay?" Bailey asked, letting his arms go lax and following her line of sight.

"Yeah. Some people, huh?" she remarked, her vexation still bubbling on the surface. The woman's companions muttered embarrassed apologies, and she acknowledged them with a curt nod of the head. Then, she took a deep breath, deciding to focus on more pleasant things.

"Okay, this round's on me," Sam declared and remained on her feet before tallying the drinks she would get, going around the table. "Bail will get a Scotch. John will want to stick with beer, I know Grace has had a hankering for a margarita for a long time, but what about you two, Marcus and George?"

"Manhattan, baby," Marcus ordered.

"Manhattan baby it is," Sam repeated before turning her gaze to George.

"No, Sam, just Manhattan," Bailey corrected, smiling a little. Sam shot a questioning look at him.

"The drink is called Manhattan, Sam," Marcus explained.

"Ah, okay. And Georgie?"

"I'll have a gibson, please."

"What's that?"

"It's a martini with a pickled onion." Sam nodded her head, committing the drinks to memory before striding to the counter. She rattled off her order and asked the bartender to bring the drinks to their table.

This time, Sam arrived at the table without mishaps. She found the team discussing vacation plans for the summer.

"We might go to Alaska for a week or two. Rich has family up there, in Juneau," George explained.

"Alaska? Have you ever been there?" Sam asked, her interest piqued.

"We've been there twice, but never in the summer."

"Is it true that the sun never sets there in the summer?" Marcus jumped in to the conversation.

"In places north of the Arctic circle, yes. For instance, in Barrow, the sun doesn't set for 84 days."

Marcus whistled at the fact. "That'd make me one crazy cat."

Grace gave the agent an amused look. "Do you have plans, Marcus?"

"Me, I'm thinking of heading to Miami, knocking back some drinks, sitting under a palm tree and feeling the love of the sun and the ocean." In anticipation of his good times by the sea, he lounged back in his chair and let him head rest against the back rest.

His coworkers smiled at his eagerness as a waiter arrived with their drinks. They toasted their weekend together, then shifted their discussion to the final touch football game of the season.

* * *

><p>John observed from the table as Bailey and Sam broke apart after their first dance, smiling at one another. Bailey listened intently to the beats of the next song, which sounded decidedly more upbeat than the one they'd just danced to. Sam tried to excuse herself from the floor, but Bailey detained her, a playful grin on his face. He persuaded her to stay with him, and attempted to teach her the steps of the dance, with little success. Sam would trip up, but instead of becoming exasperated, she looked to be having a great time, if her giggling was anything to go by. The pair stayed on the edges of the dance floor, too engrossed to notice Grace and George dance up a storm at the center.<p>

Bailey made a valiant effort, but when the song reached the second chorus, he gave up teaching her, and they just swayed together to the music until the end. John thought about Angel's opinion on the nature of the relationship between the two. Maybe she wasn't too far off, after all.

John and Marcus whistled loudly as the song ended and the pair headed back to the table. "What was that dance? The one you tried to teach Sam?" John asked, taking in the happy expressions of the duo.

"The bossa nova," Bailey informed his friend.

"You should have seen Grace and George. They got smooth moves, man," Marcus enthused.

"I'm sorry we missed it," Sam sighed and took a sip of her third martini.

"Listen, John and me were thinking of heading back to the hotel. There were rumblings of a poker game on the fifteenth floor, and we'd like to scope out the situation," Marcus owned with a wink.

Sam was disappointed at the thought of their merry group disbanding this early. John read her expression and decided to deflect the disappointment with jesting. "Fine, Sam, you win. I will dance with you. Will you stop begging now?" John stood up and offered her his hand from across the table. Sam gave a wry smile to Bailey before shooting a delighted grin to John. "Nice to see you finally came to your senses," she quipped and led him lead her to the dance floor.

They danced a while in silence. Then, John started off a conversation: "Doesn't your holiday start on Monday? Do you have any special plans?"

"Not really. I'll take Chloe up to Richmond for Tom's dad's 60th birthday, but that's it. Just lots of silly girl time."

"Sounds like a blast. You should arrange one of those slumber parties."

"I take it you've heard of Angel's knack for scary stories?"

"You kidding? She sometimes gets me with those stories!"

Sam laughed at Johns's admission. "I haven't said this before, but I think it's really great that you two reconnected."

"Yeah? Thanks. She means a lot to me."

"And you mean a lot to her."

They danced in silence for the rest of the song, affording Sam a chance to admire Grace and George's whirls and twirls.

* * *

><p>John and Marcus made their departure shortly after they'd both danced with Sam, while the other four stayed at the restaurant for an hour, dancing the night away. Grace was enjoying her first chance since Jason's birth to paint the town red, but had to relent in the face of her companions' growing fatigue as the night progressed. They took a cab back to their hotel, George and Grace heading inside whilst Sam and Bailey stayed outside, for Bail wanted to smoke a cigar to cap a great night out with friends.<p>

They lingered at a distance from the entrance, which was populated by other hotel visitors despite the late hour. No fellow agents were to be seen. Sam guessed that they were either in bed or in the throes of a poker game.

The visitors were getting rowdy, and Bailey's law enforcement officer instincts kicked in, making him give his undivided attention to the proceedings. Luckily, the ruckus died down when a woman announced that she was going inside and ushered the whole lot with her. Bailey watched the group head inside, then turned to Sam, who had stepped away from him, from the looks of it, to practice the steps to bossa nova.

He heard her humming the tune they'd danced to, and a look of concentration was on her face as she retraced the box. She frowned as she apparently tried to figure out the two steps back and the chasse.

"Sam?"

She looked at him, not at all embarrassed that he'd caught her, and approached him, assuming the dancing pose even as she walked. "Come on, I think I got it." She reached for his left hand without a care in the world, and he had to act fast to move his cigar to his right hand. She missed it all in her excitement. Her right hand and his left were clasped together, her left hand rested on his arm and his right hand on his shoulder blade, still holding the cigar.

She looked into his eyes expectantly, waiting for him to start the step. They danced two box steps without a hitch, but when it came time for the steps back and the chasse, Sam dropped her gaze down to her feet, trying to will her legs to behave in the correct manner. Her left foot wouldn't do as told, and she groaned out loud.

"You're thinking too hard, Sam. Don't let your gaze drop to the ground. Look at me the entire time and have faith that you've got it."

"Okay." She shook her upper body and lolled her head from side to side, trying to loosen herself up. Then, she nodded and locked her eyes with Bailey's. They made the box again twice, and he gripped her right hand tighter when he sensed she was about to glance down once more. She resisted temptation, and they performed the chasse for the first time.

"Got it!" Sam's eyes shone with excitement. "One more time, then you can go back to smoking your cigar?" He relented and they took the two steps again.

"Thanks for the lesson." Sam looked very pleased with herself.

"No problem. Seems nowadays like I'm always teaching you things. Touch football. The bossa nova."

"It's very much appreciated," Sam acknowledged with a smile.

Bailey reminisced the last months. "Come to think of it, I'm always doing stuff for you. Cooking dinner. Borrowing poetry books. Lugging heavy things. Carrying you around. Breaking your fall. Killing insects," he rattled off.

She rolled her eyes and flashed a brilliant smile at him. "You know you love it, Malone."

He looked at her before coming to the same realization and responding with a smile of his own. "Yeah."

Bailey drew the last drags of his cigar, and Sam pulled her cream-coloured cardigan tighter, feeling an unexpected nip in the air.

"Are you cold?"

"Not yet."

He placed his hand on the small of her back and ushered her towards the hotel entrance. "Let's go inside. You don't want to catch a cold on the eve of your vacation, do you, Kid?"

There was that 'Kid' again. Her chance had arrived. She stopped in her tracks and spun around to face him directly. "You know, that's the second time you've called me Kid today. I don't like it. Are you aware that 'kid' is the young of a goat? Are you insinuating that I somehow resemble a goat?" she fired off, struggling to hide her smile.

He stared at her, his mind slow to process her accusations. A goat? The hell? "Wait, what?" He looked absolutely befuddled.

Out of nowhere, she grabbed his jaw and pressed a kiss on the side of his mouth. "I was just messing with you, Malone. You can call me Kid anytime."

He looked as if he still wasn't getting the point. She shook her head affectionately. "You're getting way too easy to mess with, Bail."

She pressed her lips against his and let them linger there for a moment. When she broke off the contact, a craving for something more overtook her. She knew she'd felt a rush from the feel of their kiss, but to her disappointment, he hadn't reacted at all. She wanted, _needed_, some indication of his feelings, his thoughts. So she kissed him again, briefly, but as she was finishing the kiss, she tugged at his lower lip gently. That got her the reaction she was looking for.

He'd been stunned by her kiss, too stunned to react one way or another, even as she initiated another kiss. At the back of his head, he wondered how much of this was attributable to the alcohol they'd imbibed before, but all rational thought flew out the window when she tugged at his lower lip. So she wanted to play it that way? He could come up with a few flourishes of his own.

She hadn't backed away; her face was two inches from his own. He placed his palms on either side of her face, effectively locking her head in place. His eyes caught hers and studied them as he went about teasing her. He pressed a gentle kiss on one side of her mouth, then let his lips ghost across hers as they landed on the other side. Then he let his lips hover near hers, inviting fleeting, light touches that only lasted mere split seconds. The caresses of his lips were so ethereal that she was beginning to think she was making up half of them.

Finally, Sam let out a demanding, impatient sound and he relented, granting her her wish. He captured her lips and twined his hands around her, pulling her close. She yielded to his kiss eagerly and ran her hands up his strong back.

_Why the hell hadn't they been doing this all along?_

That silent question that had sprung from her mind cut through her rush and sobered her up. She broke away from him. What the hell was she doing?

She'd just kissed her best friend.

Even worse, she was pretty sure she wanted to do it again.

_'cause when you're looking for nothing_

_babe, it's not the speed that kills_

_THE END_


End file.
